e did so,
the crouching figure of a man rose up against the trunk of one of the
oak-trees on the lawn; it was Oliver. His padded coat cast off, they
could dimly distinguish his tall slender form. Some singular instinct
for which he could never account made Yorke pause as he set his foot on
the threshold of the front door; he wheeled just in time to see Betty's
face, as one pale ray from a distant lantern fell across it.

"Betty, what are you doing here?" he cried, darting to her side. At that
instant a sound of voices broke on the stillness of the night; it came
from behind the mansion in the direction of the pine woods.

"Kitty is ill," faltered Betty. "I am taking her home--do not, I pray
you, detain me--oh, there is Pompey"--as the welcome sound of
sleigh-bells rang out on the frosty air. "Geoffrey, Geoffrey, let me
go!"

Her tone of agonized supplication went to Geoffrey's heart. Kitty flew
down the steps into the sleigh, unassisted, and Betty followed, her hand
in Yorke's. There arose a hoarse shout "The spy, the spy--he has escaped
by the road!" and as Betty set her foot on the runner, a dark figure
vaulted over Kitty and buried itself in the robes at the bottom of the
sleigh.

"At last, sweetheart, I pay my debt," whispered Yorke in her ear, as he
thrust Betty safely into the seat. "Pompey, drive for your life!" The
startled negro needed no second bidding, down came the whip-lash on the
horses' backs, and with a furious plunge, a mad rear, they were off, a
quarter of a mile ahead before their pursuers turned the corner of the
mansion.

Oh, that wild race through the snow! Even in after years, when long days
of happiness had crowded out much of those stirring times from Betty's
mind, a shudder would creep over her, and closing her eyes she could see
again the tall gaunt trees, the frozen road, the snow that glittered so
still and cold in the cruel starlight, and hear the distant shouts that
she feared told of pursuit. On they flew, Oliver giving occasional
directions to the trembling and excited Pompey. Now that he knew the
danger, the faithful negro would have died sooner than fail to carry the
fugitive into comparative safety. On, through the Lispenard meadows,
on,--until they struck Broadway; no pursuers within sight, and at Crown
Street Oliver bade him turn in the direction of the river, and drive
down until he reached the slip which lay at the foot of the street. All
was still. Save an occasional belate