I stood waiting for Margaret, while Mrs. Faringfield and
Fanny weepingly embraced her. That done, and with a good-night for Tom
and Mr. Cornelius, but not a word or a look for her father, who stood
as silent and motionless as marble, she laid her hand softly upon my
arm, and we went forth, leaving my mother to the unwelcome escort of
Ned. The door closed upon us four--'twas the last time it ever closed
upon one of us--and in a few seconds we were at our steps. And who
should come along at that moment, on his way to his quarters, but
Captain Falconer? He stopped, in pleased surprise, and, peering at our
faces in the darkness, asked in his gay, good-natured way what fun was
afoot.

"Not much fun," said Margaret. "I have just left my father's house, at
his command."

He stood in a kind of daze. As it was very cold, we bade him good
night, and went in. Reopening the door, and looking out, I saw him
proceeding homeward, his head averted in a meditative attitude. I knew
not till the next day what occurred when he arrived in the Faringfield
hall.

"Sir," said Tom Faringfield, stepping forth from where he had been
leaning against the stair-post, "I must speak low, because my parents
and sister are in the parlour there, and I don't wish them to hear--"

"With all my heart," replied Falconer. "Won't you come into my room,
and have a glass of wine?"

"No, sir. If I had a glass of wine, I should only waste it by throwing
it in your face. All I have to say is, that you are a scoundrel, and I
desire an opportunity to kill you as soon as may be--"

"Tut, tut, my dear lad--"

"I'll think of a pretext, and send my friend to you to-morrow," added
Tom, and, turning his back, went quietly up-stairs to his room; where,
having locked the door, he fell face forward upon his bed, and cried
like a heart-broken child.

CHAPTER XV.

_In Which There Is a Flight by Sea, and a Duel by Moonlight._

It appeared, from Ned Faringfield's account of himself, that after his
encounter with Philip, and his fall from the shock of his wound, he
had awakened to a sense of being still alive, and had made his way to
the house of a farmer, whose wife took pity on him and nursed him in
concealment to recovery. He then travelled through the woods to Staten
Island, where, declaring himself a deserter from the rebel army, he
demanded to be taken before the British commander.

Being conveyed to headquarters in the Kennedy House, near the bottom
o