ning intently for any sounds of pursuit. The house
could no longer be seen, and the night was quiet as a grave. What had
become of Claire? Was she still hiding at the edge of the thicket, or had
she found means of attaining shelter within the house? It was useless to
speculate, and I could better serve her by going my way. I swung up into
the saddle, and the horse broke into a lope.

There is no incident of that night's ride which I recall distinctly. I
merely pushed on steadily through the darkness, leaving my mount to
choose his own course, confident we were headed toward the river. I was
sufficiently acquainted with the valley of the Delaware, when daylight
came, to decide upon the nearest ford. As to the British patrols I must
run the risk of dodging these, but felt safe from such an encounter for
several hours. In truth I met no one, having no occasion to even draw
rein, although we passed through two small villages, and by a number of
farms. I could not even determine that these houses were occupied; they
were dark and silent, even the galloping hoofs of my horse failing to
awaken response.

As the feeling of security took possession of me, my mind returned to her
whom I had just left. As I had kissed her, as I had heard her lips repeat
the words I had insisted upon her saying, it had all seemed real. But now
that I was no longer looking into her eyes, I began to doubt and
question. Had she assented merely to appease me, merely to compel me to
leave her? She had said as much, almost denied caring for me, openly
stated that there was between us an impassable barrier. At the time, in
the spell of her presence, all this had meant merely a girlish spirit of
coquetry; it had seemed to me her eyes denied her lips, and gave me
courage. But now, alone under the stars, and riding away from her, this
assurance deserted me, and I began to doubt. Why should I have hoped? We
had met in ways which made intimacy inevitable, and yet the girl had
spoken no word which I could presume to interpret into love. She had
trusted me with her friendship, and was in no way responsible for my more
serious thoughts. I could not recall one word, or act, on her part, that
would give me any right to think that she cared for me, except as an
acquaintance and friend. Through sympathy she might have served any
fugitive with the same loyalty shown me. Surely she could not have loved
me in Philadelphia, when we met for the first time, and yet, even t