the damnable sin of dishonoring
her dead son's name to save the family from ruin.

CHAPTER XIII

DICK'S HEROISM

Everybody in the country heard of Dick Swinton's death and the way in
which he died--except Dora Dundas. The news was withheld from her by
trickery; and she went on in blissful ignorance of the calamity that had
overtaken her. The newspapers were full of the story. It had in it the
picturesque elements that touch the public imagination and arouse
enthusiasm.

It appeared, from the narrative of a man who narrowly escaped death--one
of the gallant band of three who volunteered to penetrate the enemy's
lines and carry dispatches--that General Stone, who for days was cut off
from the main body of the army, found it absolutely necessary to call for
volunteers to carry information and plans to the commander in the field.
Three men were chosen--two officers and a private--Dick Swinton, Jack
Lorrimer, and a private named Nutt. The three men started from different
points, and their instructions were to converge and join forces, and pass
through a narrow ravine, which was the only possible path. Once through
this, they could make a bolt for the American lines. Each man carried a
written dispatch in such a manner that it could be destroyed instantly,
the moment danger threatened, and, also, the subject matter of the
dispatch was committed to memory.

The enemy's lines were penetrated at night, but unforeseen dangers and
obstacles presented themselves; so that it was daylight before the ravine
was reached. The gallant three met at the appointed spot, and were within
sight of one another, with only half-a-mile to ride through the ravine,
when a shot rang out. A hundred rifles arose from the boulders. The
little band rushed for cover, and destroyed their dispatches by burning.

Certain death stared them in the face. After destroying the papers, they
elected to ride on and run the gantlet, rather than be captured as spies
and shot ignominiously. But it was too late. They were surrounded. Only
when Jack Lorrimer fell with one arm shattered by a bullet and a bullet
had grazed Dick Swinton's side did the others surrender. They were
promised their lives, if they laid down their arms and gave up the
dispatches.

The prisoners were bound and marched to a lonely farmhouse, where their
persons were searched and their saddles ripped to pieces to find the
papers. The failure to discover anything aroused the anger of