re would be no heart ache when the day's work was
over."

Jonas scowled heavily. Rumors had reached him before of certain
English sympathizers like himself who had found their work distasteful
after a quiet talk with Salomon and had suddenly left their posts,
declaring that they no longer desired to serve the king and his cause.
To be sure, he, Jonas Schmidt, would remain a loyal servant to King
George until the end of his days, and yet--why, should this quiet man
prod his sleeping soul with disquieting thoughts?

"And now," Haym spoke briskly to the young Frenchman, "we will write
to your sweetheart and tell her how well you are getting on and that
as soon as the wound in your hand is healed you will write to her
again." His pen raced over the paper. "Perhaps you will care to look
it over and correct my spelling which is even worse in French than in
English," and he handed the sheet covered with French characters to
Louis. The boy took it languidly enough, but his weary eyes brightened
as he read:

"Do not show any surprise, but I must communicate with you in this way
lest there be spies among the prisoners who would betray us. You are
to grow weaker and tomorrow morning the jail physician, whom I have
bribed, will find that you have died in the night. The grave digger
will turn your body over to friends of the cause who will help you to
leave New York and reach the Colonials in safety. If I am ever free
and you need a friend, call upon me without reserve."

The boy, his eyes filled with sudden tears, reached out and would have
pressed Salomon's hand, but the latter drew back laughingly. "Why such
gratitude over a mere letter which has taken me but a moment to pen?"
he said lightly, speaking loudly enough to be heard by those about
him. He folded the sheet carefully, placing it in his breast; as he
did so, he felt the eyes of a prisoner upon him; a newcomer who looked
him over carefully; then turned away with an indifference that Haym
believed was wholly feigned. But if Salomon felt that the man was an
informer he gave no sign. "Now I must about my work," he told Louis.
"I will see that your missive leaves by the next ship. So eat, my
little friend, grow fat, and cease to worry. _Au revoir._"

"_Au revoir_," answered Louis, with equal lightness. "I know my
betrothed will rejoice to see your letter."

* * * * *

In one of the darkest cells of the old Provost sat Haym Salomon with