"Come," impatiently spoke the fellow's companion, "I have no stomach for
your jests and brutality." Then, turning to the master, he said: "We
will leave you for a few hours. It seems the only thing we can do for
you. Try to rest."

Down the greenhouse the two went. The master was alone! He bowed his
splendid head, and perhaps tasted, for the first time, the dregs of
desolation.

Andy, lying low among the bushes, saw that the master's feet were
bound. The sight wrung the boy's soul. Perhaps he had wildly hoped that
escape were possible, but one glance showed him that the fetters were
cruelly strong. What could he do? Near and far he heard the measured
tread of sentinels at their posts. He wondered that he had ever gained
his present position unnoticed. It was doubtful now that he could make
his own escape, for a gray dawn was breaking in the east. But the
thought of his own danger troubled the boy little. He was thinking of a
peculiar whirring sound that he and the master had once practiced
together. A sound like an insect. "'Twould be a good signal," the
teacher had said. Would he remember it?

Andy pressed close to the broken glass, and chirruped distinctly. The
master started and raised his eyes. Was he dreaming! Again Andy
ventured. Then a smile flitted across the master's face.

"Andy!" he breathed.

"Here, close to you!"

Slowly, without a suspicious start, the man turned in the boy's
direction; and the two brave comrades smiled at each other over the gulf
of pain and grief.

"I will try to sleep!" This aloud, to regale the ear of any possible
listener other than Andy. With difficulty the master stretched, as best
he could, his fettered limbs upon the floor, taking heed to lie as close
to Andy as possible.

Silence. Then the man tossed and talked aloud in troubled fashion.

Andy, meantime, with a daring that might risk all, put his hand in the
broken pane and drew the bits of paper of the torn letters to him.

"Tell Washington," moaned the voice of the master in a half sleepy
whisper, "I regret nothing. Am proud to die and to have given _all_."

"I have the letters!" breathed Andy. "If I live Washington shall have
them and know all."

"Thank God!" came from the man upon the floor. "You are a true friend,
Andy McNeal."

"Good-by," groaned Andy. "Some one is coming!" The cold perspiration
covered the boy's body, for steps were drawing near.

"There could hardly be any one outside," said a loud,