ern resolution
brooded upon his brow, and a kindling tempest of anger showed that this
was not a moment to hazard the trial of his clemency.

"What would you have the purport of my letter?" asked the officer, in a
subdued voice.

"That you have got into the hands of the Whigs," replied the sergeant;
"and that if so be any mischief should fall upon Major Butler, by the
contrivings of your friends, you die the first minute that we hear of
it."

"I have had no hand in the taking of Major Butler," said the young St.
Jermyn.

"I am glad of it," answered Robinson, "for your sake. You will die with
a better conscience. If you had a hand in it, young man, I wouldn't ask
you to write a line to any breathing man: your brains would spatter that
door-post. Take up the pen and write, or stand by the consequences."

The officer took up the pen, then, hesitating a moment, flung it down,
saying:

"I will not write; do with me as you choose."

"The young man drives me to it, against my own nature," said Robinson,
speaking under strong excitement. "If he will not pen that letter, then,
David Ramsay, you will write to Innis, in my name, and say Galbraith
Robinson has got the Ensign where no Tory foot will ever follow him, and
holds him to answer the first mischief that is done to Arthur Butler.
But, I swear to this sulky boy, that if that letter goes to Innis for
want of a better, as I am a man and a sodger, he will never taste food
or water till I hear that Major Butler is free. He shall starve in the
mountain."

"Oh, God! oh, God!" ejaculated the young soldier, in bitterness of
heart; and covering his face with his hands, he threw his head upon the
table, where he wept tears of agony. At length, looking in the
countenance of Robinson, he said: "I am young, sir--not above twenty
years. I have a mother and sisters in England."

"We have no time to spare," interrupted Robinson, "much less to talk
about kinsfolk. Major Butler has them that love his life better than
e'er an Englishwoman loves her son. If they are brought to grief by this
onnatural rascality, it matters nothing to me if every daughter and
sister in England pines away of heart-sickness, for the loss of them
that they love best. Take my advice, my lack-beard," added Robinson,
patting him on the shoulder, "and write the letter. You have the
chances of war in your favor, and may save your neck."

"I will do your bidding, sir," said the ensign, after a pause. "Under