was over. Success
or failure? Andy could not tell from the calm features. Spy or hero!
What mattered? There sat the beloved friend, deserted and forlorn--still
unconquered though the fetters bound him close.

"I would send, if your kindness will permit, these letters. They will
make lighter the sorrow of them I love."

Andy bowed his head and clutched at his throat to stifle the rising cry.
A broken pane of glass near-by permitted him to hear clearly every word.

One man on guard had a low, brutal face, the other, Andy noticed, had a
more humane look.

"Have you the letters written?" asked the coarse fellow.

"I have." The master drew them from his breast and handed them to the
speaker.

"One is to Washington," laughed the man. "Gad, you must take us for raw
recruits."

"I shall be beyond harming you soon. That letter refers to personal
matters, I swear." There was superb dignity in the voice. "I would have
his excellency know that I regret nothing. I would do all over again,
did the need arise. Washington would see that my comrades understand
that."

The man with the letters gave vent to a brutal oath. Then the quieter
man spoke for the first.

"If we read the letters and find them harmless, I am for forwarding
them. To whom are the others addressed?"

"One to my family, the other--to the woman I was to have married!" The
master, for the first time, bowed his head, as if his burden were too
heavy.

"I think we may carry out your request if the contents are what you
imply."

"And make a hero of this spy!" snarled the rougher man. "Every word may
have a double meaning, Colonel. We have the papers he so carefully hid,
but these letters may contain the same information, slyly concealed." He
tore the letters across twice, and flung the pieces on the floor. "Death
and oblivion to all rebel spies!" he hissed.

The master never flinched, but his pale face grew paler. "Is there
anything else we can do for you?" asked the milder voice, "something
safer than forwarding letters?"

"I should like to have the right generally granted a dying man, of
seeing a minister. One lives a few miles above here. I am sure he would
come."

"And hear what you dare not write," sneered the torturer. "You are not
the sort to need a death-bed scene; besides, there isn't going to be any
death-bed. I dare say the parson would be glad enough to carry your
so-called confession to Washington. Bah! you are crude in your last
moments."