chains about his wrists and ankles. From the courtyard he could hear
the merry laughter of the British soldiers and their Hessian comrades
as they smoked and jested after their evening meal. Like true
soldiers, they took it all in a day's work and there seemed to be no
lack of spirits among them even if they were assigned the grim task of
hanging a man upon the morrow. And Haym Salomon, being condemned to
death by a military court, smiled his grave, gentle smile to hear
their mirth. He had played the game of chance and he had lost, so why
should he complain?

Down the damp corridor came the shuffling of feet and a moment later
Jonas Schmidt entered, a lantern in one hand, a straw basket on his
arm. "Your wife has sent you something for your evening meal," he said
gruffly, placing the basket on the bench beside the condemned man. He
spoke loudly as he noticed a red-coated Briton loitering at the end of
the passage. "Faith, she has sent you enough to feed a regiment. But
women are ever foolish. My own wife is waiting for me below. She has
come all the way to New York merely for advice about our milch heifer
and traveled weighted down with cakes and eggs and butter--which all
her careful packing could not shield enough from the August sun, and
it has oozed through her finest linen napkin and she is sorely
grieved. But not an egg is broken and tomorrow Sir Henry Clinton will
eat eggs laid by loyal Tory hens for his breakfast with my
compliments."

Haym glanced sharply at his old friend who seldom indulged in such
lengthy speech. He was about to the basket, touched at his poor wife's
thoughtfulness, when the jailor gave a warning gesture and tiptoed to
the door. Then he came back, nodding, well pleased at his own craft.

"The lobster has disappeared," he whispered. "I thought that my
chatter would mislead him. But we have not a minute to lose. Open the
basket and dress quickly in the woman's raiment you find there." Then,
as Haym stared at him bewildered, "Dress, I say," and he pulled from
the basket a calico dress, tightly rolled, a gay shawl and a woman's
deep straw bonnet. "When you were pronounced guilty--and every man in
New York knew what the outcome of your trial would be--I said that I
for one would not have your blood upon my hands. No, no, Haym Salomon.
You may be an infidel Jew, but you are a better Christian than all who
worship in Trinity Church every Sabbath. By the will of God, my son
passed through New Yor