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The friends of Henry Wharton, had placed so
much reliance on his innocence, that they were
unable to see the full danger of his situation. As
the moment of trail, however, approached, the uneasiness
of the youth himself increased; and
after spending most of the night with his afflicted
family, he awoke, on the following morning, from a
short and disturbed slumber, to a clearer sense of
his condition, and a survey of the means that were
to extricate him from it with life. The rank of
André, and the importance of the measures he
was plotting, together with the powerful intercessions
that had been made on his behalf, occasioned
his execution to be stamped with greater notoriety
than the ordinary events of the war. But
spies were frequently arrested, and the instances
that occurred of summary punishment for this
crime, were numberless. These were facts that
were well known to both Dunwoodie and the prisoner;
and to their experienced judgments the preparations
for the trial were indeed alarming.

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Notwithstanding their apprehensions, they succceded
so far in concealing them, that neither Miss Peyton,
nor Frances, was aware of their extent. A strong
guard was stationed in the out-buildings of the
farm-house where the prisoner was quartered, and
several sentinels watched the avenues that approached
the dwelling—one was constantly near
the room of the British officer. A court was already
detailed to examine into the circumstances,
and upon their decision the fate of Henry rested.

The moment at length arrived, and the different
actors in the approaching investigation assembled.
Frances experienced a feeling like suffocation,
as, after taking her seat in the midst of her family,
her eyes wandered over the groupe who were thus
collected. The judges, three in number, sat by
themselves, clad in the martial vestments of their
profession, and maintained a gravity worthy of the
occasion, and becoming in their rank. In the
centre was a man of advanced years, but whose
person continued rigidly erect, and whose whole
exterior bore the stamp of early and long-tried
military habits. This was the president of the
court, and Frances, after taking a hasty and unsatisfactory
view of his associates, turned to his
benevolent countenance, as the harbinger of mercy
to her brother. There was a melting and subdued
expression in the features of the veteran,
that, contrasted with the rigid decency and composure
of the others, could not fail to attract notice.
His attire was strictly in conformity to the
prescribed rules of the service to which he belonged;
but his fingers trifled, with a kind of convulsive
and unconscious motion, with the crape
that entwined the hilt of the sword on which his
body partly reclined, and which, like himself,
seemed a relic of older times. There were the
workings of an unquiet soul within; but his

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commanding and martial front blended awe with the
pity that its exhibition excited. His associates
were officers selected from the eastern troops who
held the fortresses of West-Point and the adjacent
passes—they were men who had attained the meridian
of life, and the eye sought in vain the expression
of any passion or emotion, on which it
might seize as an indication of human infirmity.
There was a mild, but a grave intellectual reserve.
If there was no ferocity or harshness to chill,
neither was there compassion or interest to attract.
They were men who had long acted under
the dominion of a prudent reason, and whose feelings
seemed trained to a perfect submission to
their judgments.

Before these arbiters of his fate Henry Wharton
was ushered, under the custody of two armed
men. A profound and awful silence succeeded
his entrance, and the blood of Frances chilled
in her veins. There was but little of pomp in
the preparations to impress her imagination,
but the reserved, business-like air of the whole
scene seemed indeed as if the destinies of life
awaited on the judgment of these men. Two of the
judges sat in grave reserve, fixing their inquiring
eyes on the subject of their investigation; but the
president continued gazing around in uneasy convulsive
motions of the muscles of the face, that
indicated a restlessness foreign to his years and
duty.—It was Colonel Singleton, who, but the day
before, had learnt the fate of Isabella, but who
proudly stood forth in the discharge of a duty
that his country required at his hands. The silence
and the expectation in every eye, at length struck
him, and, making an effort to collect himself, he
spoke in the deep tones of one used to authority—

“Bring forth the prisoner.”

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The sentinels dropped their bayonet points towards
the judges, and Henry Wharton advanced
with a firm step into the centre of the apartment.
All was now anxiety and eager curiosity. Frances
turned for a moment, in grateful emotion, as
the deep and perturbed breathing of Dunwoodie
reached her ear; but her brother again concentrated
all her interest into one feeling of intense
care. In the back ground were arranged the inmates
of the family who owned the dwelling, and
behind them again was a row of shining faces of
ebony, glistening with pleased wonder at the
scene. Amongst these was the faded lustre of
Cæsar Thompson's countenance.

“You are said,” continued the president, “to
be Henry Wharton, a Captain in his Britannic Majesty's
60th regiment of foot.”

“I am.”

“I like your candour, sir; it partakes of the
honourable feelings of a soldier, and cannot fail to
impress your judges favourably.”

“It would be prudent,” said one of his companions,
“to advise the prisoner that he is bound
to answer no more than he deems necessary; although
we are a court of martial law, yet, in this
respect, we own the principles of all free governments.”

A nod of approbation, from the silent member,
was bestowed on this remark, and the president
proceeded with caution—referring to the minutes
he held in his hand.

“It is in accusation against you, that, being an
officer of the enemy, on the 29th of October last,
you passed the picquets of the American army at
the White Plains, in disguise, whereby you are suspected
of views hostile to the interests of America;
and have subjected yourself to the punishment
of a Spy.”

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The mild but steady tones of the speaker's
voice, as he slowly repeated the substance of this
charge, sunk to the hearts of many of the listeners.
The accusation was so plain, the facts so
limited, the proof so obvious, and the penalty so
well established, that escape at once seemed impossible.
But Henry replied, with earnest grace—

“That I passed your picquets, in disguise, is
true, but”—

“Peace,” interrupted the president; “the usages
of war are stern enough, in themselves; you
need not aid them to your own condemnation.”

“The prisoner can retract that declaration, if
he pleases,” remarked another judge. “His confession,
which must be taken, goes fully to prove
the charge.”

“I retract nothing that is true,” said Henry,
proudly.

The two nameless judges heard him in silent
composure, yet there was no exultation mingled
with their gravity. The president now appeared,
however, to take new interest in the scene; and,
with an animation unlooked for in his years, he
cried—

“Your sentiment is noble, sir. I only regret
that a youthful soldier should so far be misled by
loyalty, as to lend himself to the purposes of deceit.”

“Deceit!” echoed Wharton; “I thought it prudent
to guard against capture from my enemies.”

“A soldier, Captain Wharton,” exclaimed the
veteran, in proud exultation, “should never meet
his enemy but openly and with arms in his hands.
For fifty years have I served two kings of England,
and now my native land; but never did I
approach a foe, unless under the light of the sun,
and with honest notice that an enemy was nigh.”

“You are at liberty to explain what your

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motives were, in entering the ground held by our army,
in disguise;” said the other judge, with a
slight movement of the muscles of his mouth.

“I am the son of this aged man, before you,”
continued Henry. “It was to visit him that I encountered
the danger. Besides, the country below
is seldom held by your troops, and its very
name implies a right to either party to move at
pleasure over its territory.”

“Its name, as a neutral ground, is unauthorised
by law; and is an appellation that originates with
the condition of the country. But wherever an
army goes, it carries its rights along, and the first
is, the ability to protect itself.”

“I am no casuist, sir,” returned the youth, earnestly;
“but I feel that my father is entitled to
my affection, and would encounter greater risks to
prove it to him, in his old age.”

“A very commendable spirit,” cried the veteran;
“come, gentlemen, this business brightens.
I confess, at first, it was very bad; but no man
can censure him for desiring to see his parent.”

“And have you proof that such only was your
intention?”

“Yes—here,” said Henry, admitting a ray of
hope; “here is proof—my father, my sister, Major
Dunwoodie, all know it.”

“Then, indeed,” returned his immoveable
judge, “we may be able to save you. It would
be well, sir, to examine further into this business.”

“Certainly,” said the president with alacrity;
“let the elder Mr. Wharton approach and take
the oath.”

The father made an effort at composure, and
advancing with a feeble step, complied with the
necessary forms of the court.

“You are the father of the prisoner?” said
Colonel Singleton, in a subdued voice, after

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pausing a moment in respect to the agitation of the
witness.

“He is my only son.”

“And what, sir, do you know of his visit to your
house, on the 29th day of October last?”

“He came, as he told you, sir, to see me and
his sisters.”

“Was he in disguise?” asked the other judge.

“He did not wear the uniform of the 60th.”

“To see his sisters too!” said the president,
with great emotion. “Have you daughters, sir?”

“I have two—both are in this house.”

“Had he a wig?” continued the officer.

“There was some such thing, I do believe, upon
his head.”

“And how long had you been separated?” asked
the president.

“One year and two months.”

“Did he wear a loose great coat of coarse materials?”
inquired the officer, referring to the paper
that contained the charges.

“There was an over-coat.”

“And you think that it was to see you, only,
that he came out?”

“And my daughters.”

“A boy of spirit,” whispered the president to
his silent comrade. “I see but little harm in such
a freak—'twas imprudent, but then it was kind.”

“Do you know that your son was entrusted
with no commission from Sir Henry Clinton, and
that the visit to you was not merely a cloak to
other designs.”

“How can I know it?” said Mr. Wharton, in
alarm; “would Sir Henry entrust me with such a
business?”

“Know you any thing of this pass?” exhibiting
the paper that Dunwoodie had retained when
Wharton was taken.

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“Nothing—upon my honour, nothing,” cried
the father, shrinking from the paper as from contagion.

“But, on your oath?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you other testimony; this does not
avail you. Captain Wharton. You have been
taken in a situation where your life is forfeited—
the labour of proving your innocence rests with
yourself; take time to reflect, and be cool.”

There was a frightful calmness in the manner of
this judge that appalled the prisoner. In the
sympathy of Colonel Singleton, he could easily
lose sight of his danger; but the obdurate and
collected air of the others, was ominous of his
fate. He continued silent, casting expressive
glances towards his friend. Dunwoodie understood
the appeal, and offered himself as a witness.
He was sworn and desired to relate what he knew.
His statement did not materially alter the case, and
Dunwoodie felt that it could not. To him personally
but little was known, and that little rather
militated against the safety of Henry than otherwise.
His account was listened to in silence, and
the significant shake of the head that was made by
the silent member, spoke too plainly what effect it
had produced.

“Still you think that the prisoner had no other
object than what he has avowed,” said the president,
when he had ended.

“None other, I will pledge my life,” cried the
Major, with fervour.

“Will you swear it,” asked the immoveable
judge.

“How can I? God alone can tell the heart;
but I have known this gentleman from a boy; deceit
never formed part of his character. He is
above it.”

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“You say that he escaped, and was retaken in
open arms,” said the president.

“He was; nay, he received a wound in the combat.
You see he yet moves his arms with difficulty.
Would he, think you, sir, have tru ted
himself where he could fall again into our hands,
unless conscious of his innocence?”

“Would André have deserted a field of battle,
Major Dunwoodie, had he encountered such an
event near Tarry-town?” asked his deliberate examiner.
“Is it not natural to youth to seek glory?”

“Do you call this glory?” exclaimed the Major,
“an ignominious death, and a tarnished name.”

“Major Dunwoodie,” returned the other, still
with inveterate gravity, “you have acted nobly;
your duty has been arduous and severe, but it has
been faithfully and honourably discharged—our's
must not be less so.”

During this examination, the most intense interest
prevailed amongst the hearers. With that
kind of feeling which could not separate the principle
from the cause, most of the auditors thought
that if Dunwoodie failed to move the hearts of
Henry's judges, no other possessed the power.
Cæsar thrust his mishapen form forward; and
his features, so expressive of the concern he felt,
and so different from the vacant curiosity pictured
in the countenances of the other blacks, caught
the attention of the silent judge. For the first
time he spoke—

“Let that black be brought forward.”

It was too late to retreat, and Cæsar found himself
confronted with a row of the rebel officers,
before he knew what was uppermost in his
thoughts. The others yielded the examination to
the one who suggested it, and using all due deliberation,
he proceeded accordingly—

“You know the prisoner?”

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“I tink I ought,” returned the black, in a manner
as sententious as his examiner's.

“Did he give you the wig, when he threw it
aside?”

“I don't want' em,” grumbled Cæsar; “got a
berry good hair he'self.”

“Were you employed in carrying any letters or
messages, while Captain Wharton was in your
master's house?”

“I do what a' tell me,” returned the black.

“But what did they tell you to do?”

“Sometime a one ting—sometime anoder.”

“Enough,” said Colonel Singleton, with dignity;
“you have the noble acknowledgment of a gentleman,
what more can you obtain from this
slave? Captain Wharton, you perceive the unfortunate
impression against you? Have you other
testimony to adduce?”

To Henry, there now remained but little hope;
his confidence in his security was fast ebbing, but
with an indefinite expectation of assistance from
the loveliness of his sister, he fixed an earnest
gaze on the pallid features of Frances. She arose,
and with a tottering step moved towards the judges;
the paleness of her cheek continued but for
a moment, and gave place to a flush of fire,
and with a light but firm tread, she stood before
them. Raising her hand to her polished
forehead, Frances threw aside her exuberant
locks, and displayed a beauty and innocence
to their view, that was unrivalled. The president
shrouded his eyes for a moment, as if the wildly
expressive eye and speaking countenance recalled
the image of another. The movement was transient,
and recovering himself proudly, he said,
with an earnestness that betrayed his secret
wishes—

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“To you, then, your brother communicated his
intention of paying your family a secret visit?”

“No!—no!” said Frances, pressing her hand
on her brain, as if to collect her thoughts; “he
told me nothing—we knew not of the visit until
he arrived; but can it be necessary to explain to
gallant men, that a child would incur hazard to
meet his only parent, and that in times like these,
and in a situation like ours.”

“But was this the first time? Did he never even
talk of doing so before?” inquired the Colonel,
leaning towards her with paternal interest.

“Certainly—certainly,” cried Frances, catching
the expression of his own benevolent countenance.
This is but the fourth of his visits.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed the veteran, rubbing
his hands with delight; “an adventurous, warmhearted
son—I warrant me, gentlemen, a fiery
soldier in the field. In what disguises did he
come?”

“In none, for none were then necessary; the
royal troops covered the country, and gave him
safe passage.”

“And was this the first of his visits, out of the
uniform of his regiment?” asked the Colonel in a
suppressed voice, avoiding the looks of his companions.

“Oh! the very first,” exclaimed the eager girl;
“his first offence, I do assure you, if offence it
be.”

“But you wrote him—you urged the visit;
surely, young lady, you wished to see your brother?”
added the impatient Colonel.

“That we wished it, and prayed for it, oh! how
fervently we prayed for it, is true; but to have
held communion with the royal army, would have
endangered our father, and we dare not.”

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“Did he leave the house until taken, or had he
intercourse with any out of your own dwelling?”

“With none—not one, excepting our neighbour,
the pedlar Birch.”

“With whom?” exclaimed the Colonel, turning
pale, and shrinking as from the sting of an adder.

Dunwoodie groaned aloud, and striking his head
with his hand, cried in piercing tones, “He is lost!”
and rushed from the apartment.

“But Harvey Birch,” repeated Frances, gazing
wildly at the door through which her lover had
disappeared.

“Harvey Birch!” echoed all the judges. The
two immoveable members of the court exchanged
significant looks, and threw many an inquisitive
glance at their prisoner.

“To you, gentlemen, it can be no new intelligence
to hear that Harvey Birch is suspected of
favouring the royal cause,” said Henry, again advancing
before his judges; “for he has already
been condemned by your tribunals to the fate that
I now see awaits myself. I will, therefore, explain,
that it was by his assistance that I procured
the disguise, and passed your picquets; but, to my
dying moment, and with my dying breath, I will
avow, that my intentions were as pure as the innocent
being before you.”

“Captain Wharton,” said the president solemnly,
“the enemies of American liberty have made
mighty and subtle efforts to overthrow our power.
A more dangerous man for his means and education,
is not ranked among our foes, than this pedlar
of West-Chester. He is a spy—artful—delusive
and penetrating, beyond the abilities of any
of his class. Sir Henry could not do better than
to associate him with the officer in his next attempt.—
He would have saved him Andre.

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Indeed, young man, this is a connexion that may
prove fatal to you.”

The honest indignation that beamed on the
countenance of the aged warrior as he spoke, was
met by a satisfied look of perfect conviction on
the part of his comrades.

“I have ruined him!” cried Frances, clasping
her hands in terror; “do you desert us? then he
is lost indeed.”

“Forbear!—lovely innocent—forbear!” cried
the Colonel, with strong emotion; “you injure
none, but distress us all.”

“Is it then such a crime to possess natural affection?”
said Frances wildly; “would Washington—
the noble----upright----impartial Washington,
judge so harshly? delay but till Washington can
hear his tale.”

“It is impossible,” said the president, covering
his eyes, as if to hide her beauty from his view.

“Impossible! oh! but for a week suspend your
judgment.---On my knees I entreat you; as you
will expect mercy yourself, where no human power
can avail you, give him but a day.”

“It is impossible,” repeated the Colonel, in a
voice that was nearly choked; “our orders are
peremptory, and too long delay has been given already.”

He turned from the kneeling suppliant, but could
not, or would not, extricate the hand that she
grasped with frenzied fervour.

“Remand your prisoner,” said one of the judges,
to the officer who was in charge of Henry.
“Colonel Singleton. shall we withdraw?”

“Singleton! Singleton!” echoed Frances, “then
you are a father, and know how to pity a father's
woes; you cannot, will not, wound a heart that is
now nearly crushed. Hear me, Colonel

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Singleton; as God will listen to your dying prayers, hear
me, and spare my brother.”

“Remove her,” said the Colonel, gently endeavouring
to extricate his hand; but there were
none who appeared disposed to obey. Frances eagerly
strove to read the expression of his averted
face, and resisted all his efforts to retire.

“Colonel Singleton! how lately was your own
son in suffering and in danger? under the roof of
my father he was cherished---under my father's
roof he found shelter and protection. Oh! suppose
that son the pride of your age, the solace and protector
of your orphan children, and then pronounce
my brother guilty if you dare.”

“What right has Heath to make an executioner
of me!” exclaimed the veteran fiercely, rising
with a face flushed like fire, and every vein and
artery swollen with suppressed emotion. “But
I forget myself—come gentlemen, let us mount,
our painful duty must be done.”

“Mount not!--go not!” shrieked Frances; “can
you tear a son from his parent? a brother from his
sister, so coldly? Is this the cause I have so ardently
loved? Are these the men that I have
been taught to reverence? But you relent, you
do hear me, you will pity and forgive.”

“Lead on, gentlemen,” motioning towards the
door, erecting himself into an air of military grandeur,
in the vain hope of quieting his feelings.

“Lead not on, but hear me,” cried Frances,
grasping his hand convulsively; “Colonel Singleton
you are a father!---pity---mercy---mercy. for
the son---mercy for the daughter! Yes---you had
a daughter. On this bosom she poured out her
last breath; these hands closed her eyes; these
very hands, that are now clasped in prayer, did
those offices for her, that you now condemn my
poor, poor brother to require.”

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