“A brother has no duties nor rights, concerning a sister who is married.”

“Then, if not as your brother, I have as your husband’s friend.  For, by God, I am Phil’s friend, to the death; and while he’s not here to see what’s passing, I dare act on his behalf.  If I may not have a care of my sister’s honour, I may of Philip Winwood’s!  And now I’ll go to your captain!”

“But wait—­stay, Tom—­a moment, for God’s sake!  You’re mistaken, I tell you.  There’s naught against Philip Winwood’s honour in my meeting Captain Falconer.  We have conferences, I grant.  But ’tis upon a matter you know nothing of—­a matter of the war.”

“What nonsense!  To think I should believe that!  What affair of the war could you have to do with?  It makes me laugh!”

“I vow there’s an affair I have to do with.  What do you know of my secrets, my planning and plotting?  ’Tis an affair for the royal cause, I’ll tell you that much.  Nay, I’ll tell you all; you won’t dare betray it—­you’d be a traitor to the king if you did.  You shall be let into it, you and Bert.  Call back Captain Falconer and him.”

Puzzled and incredulous, but glad to test any assertion that might clear his sister of the suspicion most odious, Tom hallooed for us.  When we re-entered the glade, Margaret spoke ere any one else had time for a word: 

“Captain Falconer, I think you’ll allow me the right to admit these gentlemen into the secret of our interviews.  They are both loyal, both so dear to me that I’d gladly have them take a part in the honour of our project—­of which, heaven knows, there’ll be enough and to spare if we succeed.”

“Madam,” said he, “its chance of success will be all the greater, for the participation of these gentlemen.”

“Well?” said Tom, looking inquiringly at his sister.

“You promise your aid, then, both?” she asked.

“Let us hear it first,” he replied.

She obtained our assurances of secrecy in any event, and proceeded: 

“Everybody knows what this rebellion costs England, in money, men, and commerce; not to speak of the king’s peace of mind, and the feelings of the nation.  Everybody sees it must last well-nigh for ever, if it doesn’t even win in the end!  Well, then, think what it would mean for England, for the king, for America, if the war could be cut short by a single blow, with no cost; cut short by one night’s courage, daring, and skill, on the part of a handful of men!”

Tom and I smiled as at one who dreams golden impossibilities.

“Laugh if you will,” said she; “but tell me this:  what is the soul of the rebellion?  What is the one vital part its life depends on?  The different rebel provinces hate and mistrust one another—­what holds ’em together?  The rebel Congress quarrels and plots, and issues money that isn’t worth the dirty paper it’s printed on; disturbs its army, and does no good to any one—­what