THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE

A terrible storm was coming up, after the sultry day.  Andy’s whole being centered upon the thought that he must reach the Beekman Place; and the coming storm might delay him.  Only so far did it affect him.  He felt no hunger; it troubled him a little that his mother and Ruth would worry about him, but nothing mattered so much as the solving of the doubt that was causing his heart and brain to throb.

Strangely enough, his lameness decreased as his excitement waxed greater, or it seemed to, and he considered it less.  The birds stopped twittering their vesper songs, and huddled fearfully in their shelters.  A peal of thunder was followed quickly by another.  The rocks took up the echo and prolonged the sound.  Between, the flashes of lightning, the darkness could almost be felt, so tangible and dense it seemed.  Once Andy fell and struck his head.  The blow made him giddy, but the rain dashing in his face steadied him, and he plodded on.  Then a glare in the distance attracted him.  It was in the direction toward which he was going.

“A fire!” he muttered.  “All the more reason for hoping they will not notice me.”  The town might burn, what matter, if only the way were free to the Beekman place.

It was still dark when he reached his destination, worn and haggard.  Over toward the greenhouse people were stirring about, and Andy rightly guessed that the prisoner, whoever he might be, was there.  No luckier place could have been chosen, so far as Andy was concerned.  It was surrounded by shrubbery through which he could creep right up to the building, providing, of course, that the sentinels did not see him.  But the sentinels were relaxing their watch.  The hours of the troublesome spy were nearly ended, and there could be little danger of any further trouble on his account.

Andy crept along, keeping to the bushes.  The storm was nearly over, and no lightning could betray his motions now.

Once the glass house was reached, Andy looked eagerly in.  There was a pile of rubbish in one corner, and a man was sitting upon a rude bench near it; between him and Andy, however, were two men with their backs to the boy, and they quite hid the face of the man upon the bench.  The two were listening, and the third man was speaking.  Andy was too far away to hear, but, gaining courage, he crept around to the other side of the house, and so came close to the group within.  Something in the attitude of the man upon the bench had caused the boy’s heart to leap madly, then almost stop.  He raised his eyes slowly—­one look was enough!

Sorrow and ill-treatment had done their work, but the dear face was the same!  Dauntless, undying courage shone upon the uplifted face.

It was the master!  The errand, whatever it had been, was over.  Success or failure?  Andy could not tell from the calm features.  Spy or hero!  What mattered?  There sat the beloved friend, deserted and forlorn—­still unconquered though the fetters bound him close.