return to his chair the door is again
thrust open, this time by men in blue and buff. They demand the assassin,
whose footsteps they have tracked there through the snow. Michael does
not answer. They are about to use violence when, through the open door,
comes Washington, who checks them with a word. The general bears a
drooping form with a blood splash on its breast, and deposits it on the
hearth as gently as a mother puts a babe into its cradle. As the
firelight falls on the still face the farmer's eyes grow round and big;
then he shrieks and drops upon his knees, for it is his son who is lying
there. Beside him is a pistol; it was dropped by the Tory when he
entered. Grasping it eagerly the farmer leaps to his feet. His years have
fallen from him. With a tiger-like bound he gains the door, rushes to the
spring-house where John Blake is crouching, his eyes sunk and shining,
gnawing his fingers in a craze of dismay. But though hate is swift, love
is swifter, and the girl is there as soon as he. She strikes his arm
aside, and the bullet he has fired lodges in the wood. He draws out his
knife, and the murderer, to whom has now come the calmness of despair,
kneels and offers his breast to the blade. Before he can strike, the
soldiers hasten up, and seizing Blake, they drag him to the house--the
little room--where all had been so peaceful but a few minutes before.

The culprit is brought face to face with Washington, who asks him what
harm he has ever suffered from his fellow countrymen that he should turn
against them thus. Blake hangs his head and owns his willingness to die.
His eyes rest on the form extended on the floor, and he shudders; but his
features undergo an almost joyous change, for the figure lifts itself,
and in a faint voice calls, "Father!" The young man lives. With a cry of
delight both father and sister raise him in their arms. "You are not yet
prepared to die," says Washington to the captive. "I will put you under
guard until you are wanted. Take him into custody, my dear young lady,
and try to make an American of him. See, it is one o'clock, and this is
Christmas morning. May all be happy here. Come." And beckoning to his men
he rides away, though Blake and his affianced would have gone on their
knees before him. Revulsion of feeling, love, thankfulness and a latent
patriotism wrought a quick change in Blake. When young Kuch recovered
Blake joined his regiment, and no soldier served the flag more honora