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The road which it was necessary for the pedlar
and the English captain to travel, in order to
reach the shelter of the hills, lay for a half-mile
in full view from the door of the building that had
so recently been the prison of the latter; running
for the whole distance over the rich plain that
spreads to the very foot of the mountains, which
here rise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from
their bases; it then turned short to the right, and
was obliged to follow the windings of nature as it
won its way into the bosom of the highlands.

To preserve the supposed difference in their
stations, Harvey rode a short distance ahead of his
companion, and maintained the sober, dignified
pace that was suited to his assumed character.
On their right, the regiment of foot that we have
already mentioned lay in tents; and the sentinels
who guarded their encampment, were to be seen
moving with measured tread, under the skirts of
the hills themselves.

The first impulse of Henry was, certainly, to
urge the beast he rode to his greatest speed at
once, and by a coup-de-main, not only accomplish
his escape, but relieve himself from the torturing

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suspense of his situation. But the forward movement
that the youth made for this purpose was
instantly checked by the pedlar.

“Hold up!” he cried, dexterously reining his
own horse across the path of the other; “would
you ruin us both? Fall into the place of a
black, following his master. Did you not see
their blooded chargers, all saddled and bridled,
standing in the sun before the house? How long
do you think that miserable Dutch horse you are
on would hold his speed, if pursued by the Virginians?
Every foot that we can gain, without
giving the alarm, counts us a day in our lives.
Ride steadily after me, and on no account look
back. They are as subtle as foxes, aye, and as
ravenous for blood as wolves!”

Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience,
and followed the directions of the pedlar. His
imagination, however, continually alarmed him
with the sounds of a fancied pursuit; though Birch
who occasionally looked back under the pretence
of addressing his companion, assured him that all
continued quiet and peaceful.

“But,” said Henry, “it will not be possible for
Cæsar to remain undiscovered long—had we not
better put our horses to the gallop, and by the
time that they can reflect on the cause of our
flight, we can reach the corner of the woods?”

“Ah! you little know them, Captain Wharton,”
returned the pedlar' “there is a sergeant at this
moment looking after us, as if he thought all was
not right—the keen-eyed fellow watches me like
a tiger laying in wait for his leap; when I stood
on the horse-block he half suspected then that
something was wrong; nay, check your beast—
we must let the animals walk a little, for he is
laying his hand on the pommel of his saddle—if

[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]

he mounts now we are gone. The foot-soldiers
could reach us with their muskets.”

“What does he do?” asked Henry, reining his
horse to a walk, but at the same time pressing his
heels into his sides, to be in readiness for a
spring.

“He turns from his charger, and looks the other
way; now trot on gently—not so fast—not so
fast—observe the sentinel in the field, a little
ahead of us—he eyes us keenly.”

“Never mind the footman,” said Henry impatiently;
“he can do nothing but shoot us—whereas,
these dragoons may make me a captive again.
Surely, Harvey, there are horse moving down the
road behind us. Do you see nothing particular?”

“Humph!” ejaculated the pedlar; “there is
something particular indeed, to be seen behind
the thicket on our left—turn your head a little,
and you may see and profit by it too.”

Henry eagerly seized this permission to look
aside, and the blood curdled to his heart as he observed
that they were passing a gallows that unquestionably
had been erected for his own execution:—
he turned his face from the sight in undisguised
horror.

“There is a warning to be prudent in that bit
of wood,” said the pedlar, in the sententious manner
that he often adopted.

“It is a terrific sight, indeed!” cried Henry, for
a moment veiling his eyes with his hand, as if to
drive a vision from before him.

The pedlar moved his body partly around, and
spoke with energetic but gloomy bitterness—“and
yet, Captain Wharton, you see it where the setting
sun shines full upon you; the air you breathe is
clear, and fresh from the hills before you. Every
step that you take, leaves that hated gallows

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behind, and every dark hollow, and every shapeless
rock in the mountains, offers you a hiding place
from the vengeance of your enemies. But I have
seen the gibbet raised, when no place of refuge
offered. Twice have I been buried in dungeons,
where, fettered and in chains, I have passed nights
in torture, looking forward to the morning's dawn
that was to light me to a death of infamy. The
sweat has started from limbs that seemed already
drained of their moisture, and if I ventured to the
hole that admitted air through grates of iron, to
look out upon the smiles of nature, which God
has bestowed for the meanest of his creatures, the
gibbet has glared before my eyes like an evil conscience,
harrowing the soul of a dying man. Four
times have I been in their power, besides this last;
but—twice—twice—did I think that my hour had
come. It is hard to die at the best, Captain Wharton;
but to spend your last moments alone and
unpitied, to know that none near you so much as
think of the fate that is to you the closing of all
that is earthly; to think, that in a few hours, you
are to be led from the gloom, which as you dwell on
what follows, becomes dear to you, to the face of
day, and there to meet all eyes upon you, as if you
were a wild beast; and to lose sight of every thing
amidst the jeers and scoffs of your fellow-creatures.
That, Captain Wharton, that indeed is to
die.”

Henry listened in amazement, as his companion
uttered this speech with a vehemence altogether
new to him; both seemed to have forgotten their
danger and their disguises, as he cried—

“What! were you ever so near death as that?”

“Have I not been the hunted beast of these
hills for three years past?” resumed Harvey; “and
once they even led me to the foot of the gallows
itself, and I escaped only by an alarm from the

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royal troops. Had they been a quarter of an hour
later, I must have died. There was I placed in the
midst of unfeeling men, and gaping women and
children, as a monster to be cursed. When I
would pray to God, my ears were insulted with
the history of my crimes; and when in all that
multitude I looked around for a single face that
showed me any pity, I could find none—no, not
even one—all cursed me as a wretch who would
sell his country for gold. The sun was brighter
to my eyes than common—but then it was the last
time I should see it. The fields were gay and pleasant,
and every thing seemed as if this world was
a kind of heaven. Oh! how sweet life was to me
at that moment! 'Twas a dreadful hour, Captain
Wharton, and such as you have never known.
You have friends to feel for you, but I had none
but a father to mourn my loss, when he might
hear of it; but there was no pity, no consolation
near to sooth my anguish. Every thing seemed
to have deserted me.—I even thought that he had
forgotten that I lived.”

“What! did you feel that God had forsaken
you, Harvey?” cried the youth, with strong sympathy.

“God never forsakes his servants,” returned
Birch with reverence, and betraying naturally a
devotion that hitherto he had only assumed.

“And who did you mean by he?”

The pedlar raised himself in his saddle to the
stiff and upright posture that was suited to his outward
appearance. The look of fire that for a
short time glowed upon his countenance disappeared
in the solemn lines of unbending
self-abasement, and speaking as if addressing a negro,
he replied—

“In heaven there is no distinction of colour,
my brother, therefore you have a precious charge

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within you, that you must hereafter render an account
of,”—dropping his voice, “This is the last
sentinel near the road; look not back, as you value
your life.”

Henry remembered his situation, and instantly
assumed the humble demeanour of his adopted
character. The unaccountable energy of the
pedlar's manner was soon forgotten in the sense
of his own immediate danger; and with the
recollection of his critical situation, returned all
the uneasiness that he had momentarily forgotten.

“What see you, Harvey?” he cried, observing
the pedlar to gaze towards the building they had
left, with ominous interest; “what see you at
the house?”

“That which bodes no good to us,” returned
the pretended priest. “Throw aside the mask
and wig—you will need all your senses without
much delay—throw them in the road: there are
none before us that I dread, but there are those behind
who will give us a fearful race.”

“Nay, then,” cried the Captain, casting the implements
of his disguise into the highway, “let
us improve our time to the utmost---we want a
full quarter to the turn; why not push for it at
once?”

“Be cool---they are in alarm, but they will not
mount without an officer, unless they see us fly---
now he comes---he moves to the stables---trot
briskly---a dozen are in their saddles, but the officer
stops to tighten his girths---they hope to steal
a march upon us---he is mounted---now ride,
Captain Wharton, for your life, and keep at my
heels. If you quit me you will be lost.”

A second request was unnecessary. The instant
that Harvey put his horse to his speed, Captain

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Wharton was at his heels, urging the miserable
animal that he rode to the utmost. Birch had selected
the beast on which he rode, and although
vastly inferior to the high fed and blooded chargers
of the dragoons, still he was much superior to the
little pony that had been thought good enough
to carry Cæsar Thompson on an errand. A very
few jumps convinced the Captain that his companion
was fast leaving him, and a fearful glance that
he threw behind, informed the fugitive that
his enemies were as speedily approaching. With
that abandonment that makes misery doubly grievous,
when it is to be supported alone, Henry
cried aloud to the pedlar not to desert him. Harvey
instantly drew up and suffered his companion
to run along side of the horse he rode. The cocked
hat and wig of the pedlar fell from his head, the
moment that his steed began to move briskly, and
this development of their disguise, as it might be
termed, was witnessed by the dragoons, who announced
their observation by a boisterous shout,
that seemed to be uttered in the very ears of the
fugitives—so loud was the cry, and so short the
distance between them.

“Had we not better leave our horses?” said
Henry, “and make for the hills across the fields
on our left—the fence will stop our pursuers.”

“That way lies the gallows,” returned the pedlar—
“these fellows go three feet to our two, and
would mind them fences no more than we do these
ruts; but it is a short quarter to the turn, and there
are two roads behind the wood. They may stand
to choose until they can take the track, and we
shall gain a little upon them there.”

“But this miserable horse is blown already,”
cried Henry, urging his beast with the end of his
bridle, at the same time that Harvey aided his efforts
by applying the lash of a heavy riding whip

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that he carried; “he will never stand it for half a
mile further.”

“A quarter will do--a quarter will do,” said the
pedlar; “a single quarter will save us, if you follow
my directions.”

Somewhat cheered by the cool and confident
manner of his companion, Henry continued silently
urging his horse forward. A few moments
brought them to the desired turn, and as they
doubled round a point of low under-brush, the
fugitives caught a glimpse of their pursuers scattered
along the highway.—Mason and the sergeant
being better mounted, were much nearer to
their heels than even the pedlar thought could be
possible.

At the foot of the hills, and for some distance
up the dark valley that wound among the mountains,
a thick underwood of saplings had been
suffered to shoot up, where the heavier growth
was felled for the sake of the fuel. At the sight of
this cover Henry again urged the pedlar to dismount
and secrete themselves, but his request was
promptly refused. The two roads before mentioned
met at a very sharp angle, at a short distance
from the turn, and both were circuitous, so that
but little of either could be seen at a time.
The pedlar took the one which led to the left,
but held it only a moment; for on reaching a
partial opening in the ticket, he darted across
into the right-hand path, and led the way up a
steep ascent which lay directly before them.
This manœuvre saved them.—On reaching the
fork the dragoons followed the track, and passed
the spot where the fugitives had crossed to the
other road, before they missed the marks of the
footsteps. Their loud cries were heard, by Henry
and the pedlar as their wearied and breathless
animals toiled up the hill, ordering their comrades

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in the rear to ride in the right direction. The
Captain again proposed to leave their horses and
plunge into the thicket.

“Not yet---not yet,” said Birch in a low voice;
“the road falls from the top of this hill as steep
as it rises—first let us gain the top.” While speaking,
they reached the desired summit, and both
threw themselves from their horses, Henry plunging
into the thick underwood, which covered the
side of the mountain for some distance above
them. Harvey stopped to give each of their
beasts a few severe blows of his whip, that drove
them headlong down the path on the other side
of the eminence, and then followed his example.

The pedlar entered the thicket with a little
caution, and avoided, as much as possible, rustling
or breaking the branches in his way.
There was but time only to shelter his person
from view, when a dragoon led up the ascent and
on reaching the height, he cried aloud—

“I saw one of their horses turning the hill this
minute.”

“Drive on—spur forward, my lads,” shouted
Mason, “give the Englishman quarters, but cut
down the pedlar, and make an end of him.”

Henry felt his companion gripe his arm hard, as
he listened in an universal tremor to this cry,
which was followed by the passage of a dozen
horsemen, with a vigor and speed, that showed
too plainly how little security their over-tired
steeds could have afforded them.

“Now,” said the pedlar, rising from their cover
to reconnoitre, and standing for a moment in suspense,
“all that we gain is clear gain, for as we
go up they go down. Let us be stirring.”

“But will they not follow us, and surround this
mountain,” said Henry, rising, and imitating the
laboured but rapid progress of his companion;

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“remember they have foot as well as horse, and
at any rate we shall starve in the hills.”

“Fear nothing, Captain Wharton,” returned the
pedlar, with confidence; “this is not the mountain
that I would be on, but necessity has made me
a dexterous pilot among these hills. I will lead
you where no man will dare to follow. See, the
sun is already setting behind the top of the western
mountains, and it will be two hours to the
rising of the moon. Who, think you, will follow
us far on a November night through these rocks and
precipices.”

“But listen!” exclaimed Henry; “the dragoons
are shouting to each other—they miss us already.”

“Come to the point of this rock, and you may
see them,” said Harvey, composedly setting himself
down to rest. “Nay, they can see us—notice,
they are pointing up with their fingers. There!
one has fired his pistol, but the distance is too
great for even a musket to carry upwards.”

“They will pursue us,” cried the impatient
Henry; “let us be moving.”

“They will not think of such a thing,” returned
the pedlar, picking the chicker-berries that
grew on the thin soil where he sat, and very deliberately
chewing them, leaves and all, to refresh
his mouth. “What progress could they make here,
in their heavy boots and spurs, with their long
swords or even pistols. No, no—they may go
back and turn out the foot, but the horse pass
through these defiles, where they can keep the saddle,
with fear and trembling. Come, follow me, Captain
Wharton; we have a troublesome march before
us, but I will bring you where none will think
of venturing this night.”

So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid
from view amongst the rocks and caverns of the
mountain.

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The conjecture of the pedlar was true. Mason
and his men dashed down the hill in pursuit, as
they supposed, of their victims, but on reaching
the bottom lands, they found only the deserted
hourses of the fugitives. Some little time was spent
in examining the woods near them, and in endeavouring
to take the trail on such ground as might
enable the horse to pursue, when one of the party
descried the pedlar and Henry seated on the rock
already mentioned.

“He's off,” muttered Mason, eyeing Harvey
with savage fury, “he's off, and we are disgraced.
By heavens, Washington will not trust
us with the keeping of a suspected tory, if we let
this rascal trifle in this manner with the corps;
and there sits the Englishman too, looking down
upon us with a mighty smile of benevolence. I
fancy that I can see it. Well, well, my lad, you
are comfortably seated, I will confess, and something
better than dancing upon nothing; but you
are not to the west of the Harlaem river yet, and
I'll try your wind before you tell Sir Henry what
you have seen, or I'm no soldier.”

“Shall I fire, and frighten the pedlar?” asked
one of the men, drawing his pistol from the holster.

“Aye, startle the birds from their perch—let us
see how they can use the wing.” The man fired
the pistol, and Mason continued—“'Fore George,
I believe the scoundrels laugh at us. But homeward,
or we shall have them rolling stones upon
our heads, and the Royal Gazettes teeming with
an account of a rebel regiment routed by two loyalists.
They have told bigger lies than that before
now.”

The dragoons moved sullenly after their officer
who rode towards their former quarters, musing
on the course it behoved him to pursue in the present
dilemma. It was twilight when Mason's

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party reached the dwelling, before the door of which
were collected a great number of the officers and
men, busily employed in giving and listening to
the most exaggerated accounts of the escape of
the spy. The mortified dragoons gave their
ungrateful tidings with the sullen air of disappointed
men; and most of the officers gathered round
Mason, in consultation as to the steps that ought
to be taken. Miss Peyton and Frances were
breathless and unobserved listeners to all that passed
between them, from the window of the chamber
immediately above their heads.

“Something must be done, and that speedily,”
observed the commanding officer of the regiment
which lay encamped before the house; “this
English officer is doubtless an instrument in the
great blow aimed at us by the enemy lately; besides,
our honor is involved in his escape.”

“Let us beat the woods!” cried several at
once; “by morning we shall have them both
again.”

“Softly—softly—gentlemen,” returned the colonel;
“no man can travel these hills after dark,
unless used to the passes. Nothing but horse
can do service in this business, and I presume
Lieutenant Mason hesitates to move without the
orders of his major?”

“I certainly dare not,” replied the subaltern,
gravely shaking his head, “unless you will take
the responsibility of an order; but Major Dunwoodie
will be back again in two hours, and we
can carry the tidings through the hills before daylight;
so that by spreading patroles across from
one river to the other, and offering a reward to
the country people, their escape will yet be impossible;
unless they join the party that is said
to be out on the Hudson.”

“A very plausible plan,” cried the colonel,

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“and one that must succeed; but let a messenger
be despatched to Dunwoodie, or he may continue
at the ferry until it proves too late; though doubtless
the runaways will lie in the mountains tonight.”

To this suggestion Mason acquiesced, and a
courier was sent to the major, with the important
intelligence of the escape of Henry, and an intimation
of the necessity of his presence to conduct
the pursuit. With this arrangement the officers
separated.

When Miss Peyton and her niece first learnt
the escape of Captain Wharton, it was with difficulty
they could credit their senses. They both
relied so implicitly on the success of Dunwoodie's
exertions, that they thought the act, on the
part of their relative, extremely imprudent; but
it was now too late to mend it. In listening to the
conversations of the officers, both were struck
with the increased danger of Henry's situation, if
re-captured, and they trembled to think upon the
great exertions that would be made to accomplish
this object. Miss Peyton consoled herself, and
endeavoured to cheer her niece, with the probability,
that the fugitives would pursue their course
with unremitting diligence, so that they might
reach the Neutral Ground, before the horse would
carry down the tidings of their flight. The absense
of Dunwoodie seemed to her all important,
and the artless spinster was anxiously devising
some project that might detain her kinsman, and
thus give her nephew the longest possible time.
But very different were the reflections of Frances.
She could no longer doubt, that the figure she
had seen on the hill was Birch, and she felt certain
that instead of flying to the friendly forces
below, her brother would be taken to the mysterious
hut to pass the night.

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Frances and her aunt held a long and animated
discussion by themselves, when the good spinster
reluctantly yielded to the representation of her
niece, and folding her in her arms, she kissed her
cold cheek, and fervently blessing the maid, allowed
her to depart on her errand of fraternal
love.

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