The face, with its light-blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, and rather heavy nose above a strong jaw, was now grave, and I thought, stern. At least a half-hour went by before he pushed back his chair and looked up. I am fortunate as regards this conversation, since on my return I set it down in a diary; which, however, has many gaps, and is elsewhere incomplete. "Captain Wynne," he said, "I have refused to see several gentlemen in regard to this sad business; but I learn that Mr. André was your friend, and I have not forgotten your aunt's timely aid at a moment when it was sorely needed. For these reasons, and at the earnest request of Captain Hamilton and the marquis, I am willing to listen to you. May I ask you to be brief?" He spoke slowly, as if weighing his words. I replied that I was most grateful-that I owed it to Major André that I had not long ago endured the fate which was now to be his. "Permit me, sir," he said, "to ask when this occurred." I replied that it was when, at his Excellency's desire, I had entered Philadelphia as a spy; and then I went on briefly to relate what had happened. "Sir," he returned, "you owed your danger to folly, not to what your duty brought. You were false, for the time, to that duty. But this does not concern us now. It may have served as a lesson, and I am free to admit that you did your country a great service. What now can I do for you? As to this unhappy gentleman, his fate is out of my hands. have read the letter which Captain Hamilton gave me." As he spoke, he took it from the table and deliberately read it again, while I watched him. Then he laid it down and looked up. I saw that his big patient eyes were over-full as he spoke. I "I regret, sir, to have to refuse this most natural request; I have told Mr. Hamilton that it is not to be thought of. Neither shall I reply. It is not fitting that I should do so, nor is it necessary or even proper that I assign reasons which must already be plain to every man of sense. Is that all?" I said, "Your Excellency, may I ask but a minute more?" "I am at your disposal, sir, for so long. What is it?" I hesitated, and I suspect, showed plainly in my face my doubt as to the propriety of what was most on my mind when I sought this interview. He instantly guessed that I was embar- "You propose a gallant venture, sir, but it would be certain to fail; the service would lose another brave man, and I should seem to have been wanting in decision for no just or assignable cause." I was profoundly disappointed; and in the grief of my failure I forgot for a moment the august presence which imposed on all men the respect which no sovereign could have inspired. "My God! sir," I exclaimed, "and this traitor must live unpunished, and a man who did but what he believed to be his duty must suffer a death of shame!" Then, half scared, I looked up, feeling that I had said too much. He had risen before I spoke, meaning, no doubt, to bring my visit to an end; and was standing with his back to the fire, his admirable figure giving the impression of greater height than was really his. When, after my passionate speech, I looked up, having of course also risen, his face wore a look that was more solemn than any face of man I have ever yet seen in all my length of years. "There is a God, Mr. Wynne," he said, "who punishes the traitor. Let us leave this man to the shame which every year must bring. Your scheme I cannot consider. I have no wish to conceal from you or from any gentleman what it has cost me to do that which, as God lives, I believe to be right. You, sir, have done your duty to your friend. And now, may I ask of you not to prolong a too painful interview? " I bowed, saying, "I cannot thank your Excellency too much for the kindness with which you have listened to a rash young man." 1 "You have said nothing, sir, which does not do you honor. Make my humble compliments to Mistress Wynne." I bowed, and backing a pace or two, was about to leave, when he said, "Permit me to detain you a moment. Ask Mr. Harrithe secretary to come to me." son I obeyed; and then in some wonder stood still, waiting. "Mr. Harrison, fetch me Captain Wynne's papers." A moment later he sat down, again wrote the free signature, "Geo Washington," at the foot of a parchment, and gave it to me, saying, "That boy Hamilton has been troubling me for a month about this business. The commission is but now come to hand from Congress. You will report, at your early convenience, as major, to the colonel of the Third Pennsylvania foot; I hope it will gratify your aunt. Ah, Captain Hamilton," for here the favorite aide entered, "I have just signed Mr. Wynne's commission." Then he put a hand affectionately on the shoulder of the small, slight figure. "You will see that the orders are all given for the execution at noon. Not less than eighty files from each wing must attend. See that none of my staff be present, and that this house be kept closed to-morrow until night. I shall transact no business that is not such as to ask instant attention. See, in any case, that I am alone from eleven until one. Good evening, Mr. Wynne; I hope that you will shortly honor me with your company at dinner. Pray remember it, Mr. Hamilton." I bowed and went out, overcome with the kindliness of this great and noble gentleman. "He likes young men," said Hamilton to me long afterward. "An old officer would have been sent away with small comfort." It was now late in the night; and thinking to compose myself, I walked up and down the road, and at last past the Dutch church, and up the hill between rows of huts and rarer tents. It was a clear starlit night, and the noises of the great camp were for the most part stilled. A gentle slope carried me up the hill, back of André's prison, and at the top I came out on a space clear of these camp homes, and stood awhile under the quiet of the star-peopled sky. I lighted my pipe with help of flint and steel, and walking to and fro, set myself resolutely to calm the storm of trouble and helpless dismay in which I had been for two weary days. At last, as I turned in my walk, I came on two upright posts with a cross-beam above. It was the gallows. I moved away horror-stricken, and with swift steps went down the hill and regained Jack's quarters. Of the horrible scene at noon on the 2d of October I shall say very little. A too early death never took from earth a more amiable and accomplished soldier. I asked and had leave to stand by the door as he came out. He paused, very white in his scarlet coat, smiled, and said, "Thank you, Wynne; God bless you!" and went on, recognizing with a bow the members of the court, and so with a firm step to his ignoble death. As I had promised, I fell in behind the sad procession to the top of the hill. No fairer scene could a man look upon for his last of earth. The green range of the Piermont hills rose to north. On all sides, near and far, was the splendor of the autumn-tinted woods, and to west the land swept downward past the headquarters to where the cliffs rose above the Hudson. I can see it all nowthe loveliness of nature, the waiting thousands, mute and pitiful. I shut my eyes and prayed for this passing soul. A deathful stillness came upon the assembled multitude. I heard Colonel Scammel read the sentence. Then there was the rumble of the cart, a low murmur broke forth, and the sound of moving steps was heard. It was over. The great assemblage of farmers and soldiers went away strangely silent, and many in tears. The effort I so earnestly desired to make for the capture of Arnold was afterward made by Sergeant Champe, but failed, as all men now know. Yet I am honestly of opinion that I should have succeeded. Years afterward, I was walking along the Strand in London, when, looking up, I saw a man and woman approaching. It was Arnold with his wife. His face was thin and wasted, a countenance writ over with gloom and disappointment. His masculine vigor was gone. Cain could have borne no plainer marks of vain remorse. He looked straight before him. As I crossed the way, with no desire to meet him, I saw the woman look up at him; a strange, melancholy sweetness in the pale, worn face of our once beautiful Margaret. Her love was all that time had left him; poor, broken, shunned, insulted, he was fast going to his grave. Where now he lies I know not. Did he repent with bitter tears on that gentle breast? God only knows. I walked on through the crowded street, and thought of the words of my great chief, "There is a God who punishes the traitor." [The following poems are all copyrighted by S. Weir Mitchell, and are reprinted by permission of the Century Company, publishers.] LINCOLN HAINED by stern duty to the rock of State, CH His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth, Till the keen lightnings bring the awful hour Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and limb. To all things human that he cast out fear, And, ever simpler, like a little child, Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him U DREAMLAND P ANCHOR! Up anchor! Set sail and away! The ventures of dreamland Are thine for a day. Yo, heave ho! Aloft and alow Elf sailors are singing Yo, heave ho! The breeze that is blowing So sturdily strong Shall fill up thy sail With the breath of a song. A fay at the mast-head Keeps watch o'er the sea; Blown amber of tresses Thy banner shall be; Thy freight the lost laughter That sad souls have missed, Thy cargo the kisses That never were kissed. And ho, for a fay maid Born merry in June, |