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On that memorable evening when the conclave at
Governor Stuyvesant's was in session, a single horseman,
casually passing the house, had his attention
arrested by the singular appearance of the light
bursting through the chinks and crannies of the
closed blinds, in the room which all New York knew
to be the governor's best parlor. The equestrian
gazed a little while, wonderingly, and was about to
pass on, when the dismissed party came pouring out
of the front doorway, uttering many a loud “good
night” to their host, who, candle in hand, watched
them down the lawn. It was a dark evening, lighted
faintly by the stars, and there were shadowy spots on
the way-side, beneath overhanging trees, which were
darker still. Into one of these the rider reined his
horse, and, unobserved, awaited the approach of the
party. Their nodding heads and whispering voices
and vehement gestures conveyed no other idea to the
listener than the addition of some new ghost to the
spirit-family of the island, whose advent was the subject
of comment, and whose assaults were to be

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avoided by clustering closely together. But the frequent
mention of Rudolph's name, and the appearance of
one slight and erect form, towering above the bended
figures of his companions, excited no little surprise.
A party of old Dutch gentlemen at the governor's
was no unusual occurrence, but what was young
Groesbeck doing in such an assemblage? Thus
wondering, though only with the curiosity of an idle
mind, and attaching no importance to the occurrence,
the horseman waited until the party had passed, and
then resumed his way. It has been said that there
was starlight only, and that of the faintest kind, but
feeble as were the celestial rays, they would have
revealed to the most careless observer, in the proportions
of the rider, in his position and motions, and in
the general Benhadadity of his air, the person of the
junior Sharp. But Benhadad was not Hiram, or no
bubble had been too frail, no brushed cobweb too
evanescent, to emblem the brilliant scheme on which
so many hopes were hung.

Yet when on the second ensuing day, mingling with
the crowd who thronged to see the departure of “the
Terror,” Sharp heard for the first time that Rudolph
was on board, a passenger to England, a slow, dull,
tedious process of ratiocination began to take place
in his brain, confusedly connecting the event with the
circumstances of which he had so lately been a

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witness. At times he seemed to catch the glimpse of an
idea beyond the isolated facts, and to wonder whether
there was not something strange in it, and then, with
much chuckling at his sagacity, he resolved to mention
the matter to Governor Lovelace—the very first
time that he should meet that officer. In the mean
time many anxious hearts were watching the embarkation.
From the long Dutch stoop of Evert
Knickerbocker; from the terrace of Anthony Ten
Broeck; from the distant windows of the Van
Schaicks and Van Tassels, the Van Bummels and
Van Pelts, old heads and spectacled eyes were peering;
and whispering voices asked, and whispered
words replied that all seemed safe and quiet yet.
They had regarded Rudolph's prudent injunctions in
remaining at home, but painful indeed was their suspense.
Rudolph himself was not free from fear. His
new hopes, the bliss which had so suddenly deluged
his heart, had increased by a thousand fold his value
of life; and the perils which he had held so lightly
before, seemed now of no trivial magnitude. It was
not now as an exile that he was about to quit his
native shores, but as a patriot, bound on a lofty mission,
and looking forward to a speedy return and a
happy reunion with the friends whom he left behind.
Not that he shrunk from encountering peril, or would
have abated aught from the glorious enterprise to

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which he had pledged his exertions: but it was with
a fast beating heart that he watched the slow processes
of raising the heavy anchors, and setting the
ample sails. The musical chorus of the sailors, as they
bent cheerily to their tasks, became harsh and discordant
sounds to his excited nerves, and his suspense
was increased by his inability to judge of the point of
progress attained in these mysterious operations.

Benhadad continued an interested spectator of the
scene, and as the affair of Rudolph continued to occur
at intervals to his mind, he looked around for some
one to whom he might mention his thoughts. But
seeing no one in the undistinguished throng around
him, worthy of his confidence, he again wrapped
himself in his dignity, in which very comfortable
envelope he bade fair to remain inclosed, until after
the departure of the vessel. Now it so happened
that Mr. Lieutenant Flash, who had been necessarily
delayed on shore, was approaching at this late hour
to take boat for the ship. Benhadad bade him farewell
as he passed, and swelling with suppressed dignity,
motioned to him for a moment's delay, for so loyal
an officer, he thought, would of course be glad to hear
any suspicions against anybody. Flash did not at
first recognize him, but after a moment's pause—

“Oh—ah,” he said, “Mr—a—a—the man that lost
his father—good bye—we'll keep a sharp look-out for

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the Zephyr, and may take her yet; keep up good
heart; good bye.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Benhadad; “but I was
going to observe,” laying his hand on the lieutenant's
shoulder, and lowering his voice, “that Mr. Rudolph
Groesbeck—”

“Oh, I know it,” said Flash; “he goes out as passenger—
fine fellow—good bye.”

“Yes, sir—but he is—”

“On board already—of course—certainly, good
bye;” and before Benhadad could reply, the lieutenant
was in his boat, and his sashed and sworded little
figure, standing erect as a mast, was gliding shipward
as fast as two brawny oarsmen could propel him.
The Zephyr had not slipped through Mr. Flash's
fingers more effectually than that gentleman slipped
through the fingers of Mr. Sharp, who, angered and
abashed at such disrespectful treatment, once more
looked around for some one to whom his intelligence
might prove acceptable.

But the anchor is well nigh in—the sails are nearly
set—the last boat is hoisted up, and swings, dangling,
like a toy, at the vessel's side, and noble hearts beat
freer, and aching eyes grow less vigilant in the distance.

“Ah, Sharp, my dear friend, how are you?” said a
mild bland voice in Benhadad's ear: “a fine vessel,

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isn't she? I understand our ruralizing, botanizing,
contemplative, poetical friend, young Groesbeck, goes
out—eh? where the deuce is he going to?”

“See here, Captain Sinclair!” exclaimed Benhadad,
now burning with his pent secret; and drawing his
companion aside, he whispered earnestly for some
moments in his ear, during which period the captain's
countenance underwent some singular changes. “I
dare say,” concluded the informant, “there's nothing in
it, of course, you know—but then—it's queer, isn't it?”

“Blinds closed—all Dutchmen—Rudolph the only
young man present—and he now starting off mysteriously
in the Terror—war raging between Holland and
England,” repeated Sinclair, touching at once on
the prominent points; “why, here is no suspicion, man;
here is certainty!”—and before Benhadad could reply
his companion had vanished with a celerity equal to
that of Flash, but in quite a different direction.

“It's strange what a confounded hurry they're all
in,” muttered Benhadad as he again gave himself up
to a contemplation of the majestic vessel, which now
came gracefully around, and with distended sails, stood
gallantly down the bay.

Then came the flash, the smoke, the loud reverberation
of the parting salute, the prompt response from
the fort, the merry cheers, and waving hats, and signs
of last adieu. Steadily onward, slowly at first, but

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more briskly soon, she passes on her way, leaving
town and fort behind; and the banners of St. George
are fluttering at her peak, and the merry troll of the
mariners comes more faintly to the ear, and long deep
breaths are drawn by fervent hearts on shore, and
hopes are growing brighter, and grateful tears are
shed.

Many minutes elapsed, but the gaping crowd did
not disperse. Some new commotion has arrested the
general gaze. Messengers were seen passing rapidly
to and from the government house; signals were
flying from the fort; the governor himself, accompanied
by Captain Sinclair, made his appearance, and
walked hastily to the Battery, and strange whisperings
of unintelligible events prevailed. Presently the
guns of the fort were fired in quick succession, and
after considerable delay, a sail-boat, darting out into
the stream, went racing down the bay, in the wake
of the Terror. A hundred hearts stood still, but onward
went the ship. In vain did the echoing cannon
continue to thunder from the fort: they were regarded
only as repetitions of the parting salute, and as
such were from time to time replied to by the guns of
the vessel. The signals were either not seen, or not
understood, and all the alternating hopes and fears of
the spectators soon centred upon the relative speed of
the messenger boat and its leviathan chase. Had the

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wind been fresh, the ship with its towering cloud of
canvass would doubtless soon have passed from view,
but the breeze, while strong enough to give the
feathery little bark a rapid headway, told of course
less effectually upon its bulky competitor. Yet the
difference of speed was too slight to admit of making
any certain calculations upon the result. A stern
chase is proverbially a long one, and the waterman
who guided the little craft had been despatched in
the hurry of the hour, unprovided with the means of
making any conspicuous signals.

Rudolph stood meanwhile upon the quarter-deck of
the Terror, a prey to the most harrowing anxiety.
With a sagacity sharpened by the danger which surrounded
him, he had at once conjectured the cause of
the commotion on shore, and he watched with fearful
interest the progress of the pursuing boat. His first
impulse was to destroy the papers which might prove
such fearful evidence against him, but their importance
to the success of his mission was such that he
resolved to defer their destruction until more certain
of its necessity. He thought that his fears might
magnify the danger; that the pursuit might be for
some other object, and that at all events, there would
be abundant opportunity for such a purpose before
any one authorized either to arrest or examine him
could board the vessel, for the present pursuer was

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clearly enough no officer of justice. Concealing his
trepidation as best he could, he awaited the course of
events, and to avoid directing attention to the sail-boat,
was obliged to content himself with only occasional
and furtive glances in that direction. Lieutenant
Flash joined him and rallied him upon his low
spirits: “Just so myself,” he said, “the first time I
went to sea—all right, sir—you'll be sea-sick by-and-by,
and then you'll feel better; but halloo! what's
this?” he continued, as looking off toward the harbor,
through his sea-glass, he caught sight of the sail
in their wake; “why, Groesbeck, she's chasing us,
making signals, and all that; she is, indeed, there
must be something wrong;” and the lieutenant was
about to transmit the intelligence to the Captain,
when he felt the hand of Rudolph upon his shoulder,
and turning around, saw the pale face of his companion
looking earnestly at him.

“Mr. Flash,” he said, “do you believe me to be
guilty of any crime deserving of death?”

“You! crime! death!” replied Flash rapidly;
“why, no sir, of course not. I know better.”

“Look this way then,” said Rudolph, whisperingly;
“I cannot tell you now what I mean; but do not look
at that boat; do not point your glass toward her—
for it is probable that my life depends upon her not
overtaking us.”

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