Her tone of agonized supplication went to Geoffrey’s heart.  Kitty flew down the steps into the sleigh, unassisted, and Betty followed, her hand in Yorke’s.  There arose a hoarse shout “The spy, the spy—­he has escaped by the road!” and as Betty set her foot on the runner, a dark figure vaulted over Kitty and buried itself in the robes at the bottom of the sleigh.

“At last, sweetheart, I pay my debt,” whispered Yorke in her ear, as he thrust Betty safely into the seat.  “Pompey, drive for your life!” The startled negro needed no second bidding, down came the whip-lash on the horses’ backs, and with a furious plunge, a mad rear, they were off, a quarter of a mile ahead before their pursuers turned the corner of the mansion.

Oh, that wild race through the snow!  Even in after years, when long days of happiness had crowded out much of those stirring times from Betty’s mind, a shudder would creep over her, and closing her eyes she could see again the tall gaunt trees, the frozen road, the snow that glittered so still and cold in the cruel starlight, and hear the distant shouts that she feared told of pursuit.  On they flew, Oliver giving occasional directions to the trembling and excited Pompey.  Now that he knew the danger, the faithful negro would have died sooner than fail to carry the fugitive into comparative safety.  On, through the Lispenard meadows, on,—­until they struck Broadway; no pursuers within sight, and at Crown Street Oliver bade him turn in the direction of the river, and drive down until he reached the slip which lay at the foot of the street.  All was still.  Save an occasional belated pedestrian, nothing seemed stirring, and as they neared the dingy old tavern at the Sign of the Sturdy Beggar, Pompey pulled up his smoking, panting horses.

“Don’t want to got too near dose lights,” he said, pointing to the swinging lantern which adorned the hostelry; “darsen’t let nobody see my young mistress; Massa Gulian would flog Pompey for shuah if dis tale gets tole.”

“You’re right, Pompey,” answered Oliver, springing up and flinging the long dark cloak with which Betty had provided herself around his shoulders; “take the ladies home slowly.  Kitty, my beloved, farewell—­farewell, Betty, brave little soul that you are; I’ll tell my father how your quick wits came to my relief.  Here I cross the river on the ice, and, God willing, reach the commander-in-chief with the tidings he desires by eight o’clock in the morning.”

A sob from Kitty, a low “God guard you!” from Betty, and Oliver vanished as Pompey turned his horses and proceeded leisurely back to Broadway.  The girls were literally too spent with emotion to do more than sink down breathless among the fur robes, and not one word did they exchange as they drove through Wall Street and finally drew up at the Verplancks’ door.  On the steps stood Gulian, a tall and silent figure, awaiting the truants.

“What does this mean?” he began sternly, as he lifted Kitty out.  “Did the hue and cry for that wretched, miserable Whig spy frighten the horses?  Clarissa is nearly distracted”—­