fore actually sending you,
I thought it best to make further inquiries. The information I have now
received justifies me in despatching you at once. The letter of Arnold
to Schuyler and some of those he addressed to residents of this city,
especially one, yes, one"--and here, for a moment, the Governor got very
excited--"have revealed his whole plans to me. To horse then and away
for King and country."

Hardinge bowed and walked to the door. On reaching the threshold, he
paused and said:

"Pardon me, Your Excellency, but there is one thing I forgot to tell you
before, and which, perhaps, I ought to tell you now?"

"What is it?"

"I promised to meet Donald again to-night."

"When?"

"At twelve."

"Where?"

"On the other side of the river, just above the Point."

"Will he have important news?"

"It may or may not be important, but it will be fresh, inasmuch as he
will have been all day reconnoitering the enemy on a very fast horse."

"Can he not cross to this side?"

"He has no instructions to that effect. Besides, he will arrive at the
rendezvous at the last moment."

"Then I will meet him myself. Good morning."

Noon was just striking when Roderick cleared the gates and took the high
road to Three Rivers.

VI.

PAULINE'S TEARS.

When Pauline Belmont reached her home, after separating from her father
at the Square, she was considerably troubled. She could not define her
fears, if, indeed, she had any, but mere perplexity was enough to weigh
down her timid, shrinking little heart. She went up into her room, put
off her furs, and, as she removed her azure veil, there was the gleam of
tears in her beautiful brown eyes. She seated herself in her low rocking
chair, and placing her feet on the edge of the fender, looked sadly into
the flames. Little did Pauline know of the great world outside. Her home
was all the universe to her, and that home centred in her father. Mother
she had none. Sisters and brothers had died when she was a child. She
had spent her youth in the convent of the gentle Ursulines, and now that
she had finished her education, she had come to dedicate her life to the
solace of her father. M. Belmont was still in the prime of life, being
barely turned of fifty, but he had known many sorrows, domestic, social
and political, and the only joy of his life was his darling daughter. An
ardent Frenchman, he had lived through the terrible days of the Conquest
which had seared his brow