m a letter to Samuel Eliot
under date of September 6, 1776: "I am at length allowed to visit the
prisoners. They are only eleven out of thirty." _Proceedings Mass.
Hist. Soc._ vol. xvi.]

Many times Abraham Duncan asked permission to see the prisoners
confined in the jail, that he might minister to their needs and do
something for their comfort and welfare, but as often had he been
refused by the gruff red-coated sergeant in charge. Once more, after
learning what General Washington had done, he asked permission,
received a pass from the provost-marshal, and was admitted. He saw the
floor was covered with prostrate forms, men with sunken eyes,
emaciated hands, a few with old quilts beneath them, others upon the
bare planks. There were festering wounds and cheeks hot with the flush
of fever. Some of the sufferers gazed upon him wonderingly, others
heeded not his coming. One, whose uniform was still soiled with the
dust of the battlefield, lay with closed eyes, minding not his
presence.

"His wound has about healed, but he is going with fever. He was
fine-looking when brought here the day after the battle, but he is
about done for. After to-morrow we shall have one less to exchange
with Mr. Washington," said the sergeant.

Abraham stooped and parted the matted beard from the fevered lips, and
laid back the tangled hair from the brow. The eyes wearily opened,
gazed languidly, then wonderingly.

"Do you know me?"

The words were faintly spoken.

"Know you! What, Robert Walden!"

There was not strength in the arm sufficient to lift the weary hand.
Abraham grasped it, looked one moment at the closing eyes, and
hastened from the room. Breathless with running, he reached the
Brandon home, telling the story.

"We must have him brought here instantly; he must not die there," said
Mr. Brandon, who accompanied Abraham to the jail, only to find that
the sergeant in charge could not permit the removal. Sadly they
returned.

"I must tell Ruth about it," said Berinthia, putting on her bonnet and
hastening from the house.

Ruth was sitting in her chamber. A strange, yet sweet peace had come
into her soul. The heart that had struggled so sorely was at rest. She
was repeating to herself the words spoken by the world's best friend,
"My peace I leave you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you."

The summer birds were no longer singing; the swallows had gone. The
melocotoons were no longer upon the trees, neither the early