“Poor girl!” he thought.  “How her face would gladden if I were to walk into her presence at this moment!”

And the thought gave birth to the resolution.  The joy of such a meeting was worth a thousand risks and efforts.

His first step was to get leave of absence and General Washington’s permission to enter New York.  The former was quickly obtained, the latter less so.  But if he failed to demonstrate to the commander the possible profit of his secretly visiting the enemy’s town, he convinced him that the entrance was not too difficult to one who knew the land so well, and who could so easily find concealment.  Sympathising with Philip’s private motive in the case, trusting him implicitly, and crediting his ability to take care of himself in even so perilous a matter, Washington finally gave consent.

Philip rode in proper manner from the rebel camp, bound apparently Southward, as if perchance he bore despatches to the rebel civil authorities at Philadelphia.  Once out of observation, he concealed his uniform cap and outer coat, and provided himself at a New Jersey village with an ordinary felt hat, and a plain dark overcoat.  He then turned from the Southward road, circled widely about the rebel camp, and arrived at a point some distance north of it.  Here, in a hospitable farmhouse, he passed the night.  The next day, he rode Eastward for the Hudson River, crossing undiscovered the scanty, ill-patrolled line of rebel outposts, and for the most part refraining from use of the main roads, deserted as these were.  By woods and by-ways, he proceeded as best the snow-covered state of the country allowed.  ’Twas near dusk on the second day, when he came out upon the wooded heights that looked coldly down upon the Hudson a few miles above the spot opposite the town of New York.

He looked across the river and Southeastward, knowing that beyond the low hills and the woods lay the town, and that in the town was Margaret.  Then he rode back from the crest of the cliff till he came to the head of a ravine.  Down this he led his beast, arriving finally at the narrow strip of river-bank at the cliff’s foot.  He followed this some distance Southward, still leading the horse.  ’Twas not yet so dark that he could not make out a British sloop-of-war, and further down the river the less distinct outline of a frigate, serving as sentinels and protectors of this approach to the town.  From these he was concealed by the bushes that grew at the river’s edge.

At last he turned into the mouth of a second ravine, and, rounding a sharp side-spur of the interrupted cliff, came upon a log hut built upon a small level shelf of earth.  At one end of this structure was a pent-roof.  Philip tied his horse thereunder, and, noting a kind of dim glow through the oiled paper that filled the cabin’s single window, gave two double knocks followed by a single one, upon the plank door.  This was soon opened, and Philip admitted to the presence of the single occupant, an uncouth fellow, fisherman and hunter, whose acquaintance he had made in patrolling the New Jersey side at the head of his troop.  The man was at heart with the rebels, and Winwood knew with whom he had to deal.  Indeed Philip had laid his plans carefully for this hazardous visit, in accordance with his knowledge of the neighbourhood and of what he might rely upon.