More than once had Ruth encountered these most ungallant gentlemen, and she was alert at resenting any familiarity, but a fear grew in her heart now.  Andy’s path must not be discovered!  She must do her part.

“Good-day, my pretty lass!” The man halted.  Under ordinary circumstances Ruth would have taken to her fleet feet at this, but Andy might return too soon, and emerge while yet the enemy could discover him.

“Berrying?” grinned the fellow; “August is early for berries, is it not?  The man was suspicious, perhaps, and Ruth was on guard.

“For some kinds,” she answered, lightly.

“What kind are you hunting?”

“One that you British do not know,” she replied; “it’s a kind that grows only in America and thrives upon freedom.”

The soldier leered unpleasantly.  “Come, I will help you hunt,” he cried; “if we find a berry I cannot name, you may ask what reward you choose, and if I succeed then will I take a kiss from your red lips, eh, my girl?”

Ruth darted an angry look upward.  If they hunted, the cane would be discovered, and yet if she refused—­well, she must act quickly.

“Is it a bargain?”

“Yes;” the word came bravely from a trembling courage.

[Illustration:  “‘Good day, my pretty lass.’”]

The two knelt and began the search.  Ruth pressed the bushes so as to cover Andy’s cane, but as her keen eyes fell upon the spot where it had been, to her surprise and joy, she saw that it was gone!

A cry broke from her, for, as she realized that that danger was past, she saw, near at hand, a plant so rare even to her woodland eyes, that it was precious.  Thanks to her learned father, she knew its name, and the spray of waxen berries was her salvation.

“See!” she cried, “you have brought good luck.  ’Tis a rare find.  Now I pray you, sir, name the berry I hold in my hand.”

The man was searching the underbrush, and turned half angrily.  “What have you?” he snarled.  Ruth knew that Andy was near, but no breath was heard.

“Name the berry, sir, or I claim my advantage!” Ruth stood upright with the spray in her hand.

“Wintergreen,” ventured the fellow, wildly.

“Wrong!” sneered Ruth, “and there is no second trial.”

“How can you prove me wrong?” jeered the man, coming insolently close; “who is to decide?”

“Your head officer, sir,” flashed Ruth; “lead on, I will gladly leave it to him.  After he has heard the tale from me—­from me, mark—­I will leave it to him.  Perhaps there is one gentleman in the king’s troops.  Lead on!  Why stand staring when your stake is so high!” A dignity and fearlessness came to the angry girl.

“Do you lead, or shall I?” she asked.

“I—­I beg your pardon!” cringed the fellow, “I will abide by your decision.”

“Go, then!” cried Ruth, her temper breaking bounds, “and if you are a sample of my Lord Howe’s men, I am thinking our General will have but a short tussle.  Go!”