h nothing save a derrick for bow-sprit and
a signal-pole for mast, is the _Jersey_, called by another name,
sometimes----"

"What name?"

"Some call her '_The Hell_,'" I answered. And, after a pause: "It must
be hot aboard, with every porthole nailed."

"What can rebels expect?" she asked calmly.

"Exactly! There are some thousand and more aboard the _Jersey_. When the
wind sets from the south, on still mornings, I have heard a strange
moaning--a low, steady, monotonous plaint, borne inland over the city.
But, as you say, what can rebels expect, madam?"

"What is that moaning sound you say that one may hear?" she demanded.

"Oh, the rebels, dying from suffocation--clamoring for food,
perhaps--perhaps for water! It is hard on the guards who have to go
down every morning into that reeking, stifling hold and drag out the
dead rebels festering there----"

"But that is horrible!" she broke out, blue eyes wide with
astonishment--then, suddenly silent, she gazed at me full in the face.
"It is incredible," she said quietly; "it is another rebel tale. Tell
me, am I not right?"

I did not answer; I was thinking how I might use her, and the thought
was not agreeable. She was so lovely in her fresh young womanhood, so
impulsive and yet so self-possessed, so utterly ignorant of what was
passing in this war-racked land of mine, that I hesitated to go
gleaning here for straws of information.

"In the north," she said, resting her cheek on one slender wrist, "we
hear much of rebel complaint, but make nothing of it, knowing well that
if cruelty exists its home is not among those sturdy men who are
fighting for their King."

"You speak warmly," I said, smiling.

"Yes--warmly. We have heard Sir John Johnson slandered because he uses
the Iroquois. But do not the rebels use them, too? My kinsman, General
Haldimand, says that not only do the rebels employ the Oneidas, but
that their motley congress enlists any Indian who will take their paper
dollars."

"That is true," I said.

"Then why should we not employ Brant and his Indians?" she asked
innocently. "And why do the rebels cry out every time Butler's Rangers
take the field? We in Canada know Captain Walter Butler and his father,
Colonel John Butler. Why, Mr. Renault, there is no more perfectly
accomplished officer and gentleman than Walter Butler. I know him; I
have danced with him at Quebec and at Niagara. How can even a rebel so
slander him with these monstrous tales o