tions and the trap into
which Arty had fallen. He, too, saw it, now he was in. The only
British uniform he had ever seen was that worn by the American spy.
For a brief moment he was tempted to tell a lie. Then he said firmly,
"I cannot tell you, sir."

"Cannot! Does that mean will not?" said the man threateningly. Then
he put his hand into his pocket and took out a bright gold sovereign,
which he held before Arthur.

"Come, now, my little man, tell me where you saw the British soldier's
uniform, and you shall have this gold piece."

But all the noble impulses of the boy's nature, inherited and
strengthened by his mother's teachings, revolted at this attempt to
bribe him. His eyes flashed. He looked the man full in the face. "I
will not!" said he.

"Come, come!" cried out the man on horseback. "Don't palter any longer
with the little rebel. We'll find a way to make him tell. Up with
him!"

In an instant the man had swung Arthur into his saddle, and leaping up
behind him, struck spurs to his horse and dashed away. Caesar, who had
been sniffing about, suspicious, but uncertain, attempted to leap upon
the horseman in the rear, but he, drawing his pistol from his saddle,
fired, and Caesar dropped helpless.

The horsemen quickly vanished, and for a moment Dorothy stood pale and
speechless. Then she knelt down by Caesar, examined his wound--he was
shot in the leg--and bound it up with her handkerchief, just as she
saw Basha do the night before, and then putting her arms around his
neck she kissed him. "Be patient, dear old Caesar, and Abram shall come
for you!"

Covered with dust, her frock stained with Caesar's blood, a pitiful
sight indeed was Dorothy as she burst into the kitchen where Basha was
preparing supper.

"O mamma, they've carried off Arty and shot Caesar, those dreadful,
dreadful British!"

Between her sobs she told the whole fearful story to the two
women--fearful, I say, for Mrs. Heath knew too well the reputed
character of the British soldiery, not to fear the worst if her boy
should persist in refusing to tell where he had seen the British
soldier's uniform. But even in her distress she was conscious of a
proud faith that he would not betray his trust.

As to Basha, who shall describe her horror and indignation? "The
wretches! ain't they content to murder our men and burn our houses,
that they must take our innercent little boys?" and she struck the
spit into the chicken she was preparing for su