“Well,” said Mr. Cornelius, “Captain Winwood and I have discussed more than one plan by which he might perchance get sight of his people for a minute or so.  He has hoped he might be sent into New York under a flag of truce, upon some negotiation or other, and might obtain permission from your general to see his wife while there; but he has always been required otherwise when messengers were to be sent.  He has even thought of offering to enter the town clandestinely—­”

“Hush!” I interrupted.  “You are indiscreet.  We are soldiers of the king, remember.  But, to be sure, ’tis nonsense; Phil would not be such a fool as to risk hanging.”

“Oh, to be sure; nonsense, indeed!” Cornelius stammered, much upset at the imprudence due to his thoughtlessness.  “And yet,” he resumed presently, “never did a man more crave a sight of those he left behind.  He would barter a year of his life, I think, for a minute’s speech with his wife.  He talks of her by the hour, when he and I are alone together.  There was some coolness, you will remember, before their parting; but ’twas not on his side, and his lady seemed to have dropped it when he was taking leave of her; and three years of absence have gone since then.  So I am sure she has softened quite, and that she desires his return as much as he longs for her presence.  And though he knows all this must be so, he keeps me ever reassuring and persuading him it is.  Ah, sir, if ever there was a man in love with his wife!”

I made no reply.  I had previously informed him of her good health, in answer to a question whose eagerness came of his friendship for Philip.  I asked myself whether his unsuspecting mind was like to perceive aught that would pain him for Philip’s sake, in her abandonment to the gaieties of the town, to the attentions of the king’s officers, to the business of making herself twice as charming as the pedagogue had ever seen her.

We got it arranged that our prisoner should be put on parole and quartered at Mr. Faringfield’s house, where his welcome was indeed a glad one.  When Margaret heard of his presence in the town, she gave a momentary start (it seemed to me a start of self-accusation) and paled a little; but she composed herself, and asked in a sweet and gracious (not an eager) tone: 

“And Philip?”

I told her all I had learned from Cornelius, to which she listened with a kindly heedfulness, only sometimes pressing her white teeth upon her lower lip, and other times dropping her lustrous eyes from my purposely steady, and perhaps reproachful, gaze.

“So then,” said she, as if to be gay at the expense of her husband’s long absence, “now that three years and more have brought him so near us, maybe another three years or so will bring him back to us!” ’Twas affected gaiety, one could easily see.  Her real feeling must have been of annoyance that any news of her husband should be obtruded upon her.  She had entered into a way