anking party was at his back, and, with several other prisoners, he
was driven off to Philadelphia.

Into the Provost Prison on Walnut Street he was huddled along with
others. Oh, the squalor of it! The air was foul, the food poor, and
the officer in charge, Captain Cunningham, a brutal man, inflamed with
drink most of the time.

How his head ached the following morning! At first he attributed it to
the foul air, but surely that could not cause every bone in his body
to ache, nor the parched, feverish condition of his mouth. Was he,
after so long escaping the hazards of camp and battle, to die in a
hole like that old prison? That had been the fate of many a man.

"Hello, Allison. I'm glad, yet sorry, to find you here."

Rodney looked up. They had just brought in Lawrence Enderwood. For a
few minutes, in the pleasure of companionship, the lad forgot the
fever pains, but they would not be forgotten for long.

Enderwood entreated Cunningham to send a doctor, but was gruffly told
to mind his business. The next morning Rodney was delirious.

CHAPTER XXVII

A BLENDED ROSE

For weeks the Quaker City girls had been looking forward with much
anticipation and great eagerness to the eighteenth day of May, 1778.
On that day there was to be a most wonderful, grand and gorgeous
pageant in honour of the Howes.

There was much chirping and fluttering those evenings in the homes of
the Shippens, the Chews, the Achmutys, the Redmans, and others. In the
midst of all this lived Elizabeth Danesford, and a very lively part of
it she was.

Among all the Philadelphia beauties--and none in all this great land
or the lands across the seas could excel them--Lisbeth was a peeress.
About her shrine could be found as many worshippers as any of the
charming queens could boast. Scions of Britain's aristocracy, favoured
with a glimpse from under her dark lashes, forgot their other duties
and waited upon her whims. And she, Tory though she was, delighted in
seeing the haughty bend the knee to a girl from the Old Dominion.

And that graceful fellow, Andre, who had a knack for rhyme, a little
skill with the brush, and could design a lady's costume with even
better success than he could pen a verse, ah, he was in his seventh
heaven! Time enough to sorrow bye and bye when he should step from a
cart with a rope about his neck, all because of Benedict Arnold.

There was a triumphal arch erected in honour of Lord Howe, and another
in hon