’Twas on the final day, the day when we were riding tantivy to reach Queensborough by evening, that my deliverance came.  I say deliverance because at the moment it had the look of a short shrift and a ready halter.

We had crossed our own Catawba and were putting our horses at the steep bank on the outcoming side, when my saddle slipped.  Dismounting to tighten the girth, I called to the others to press on, saying I should overtake them shortly.

The promise was never kept.  I scarce had my head under the saddle flap before a couple of stout knaves in homespun, appearing from I know not where, had me fast gripped by the arms, whilst a third made sure of the horse.

“A despatch rider,” said the bigger of the two who pinioned me.  “Search him, Martin, lad, whilst I hold him; then we’ll pay him out for Tarleton’s hanging of poor Sandy M’Guire.”

I held my peace and let them search, taking the threat for a bit of soldier bullyragging meant to keep me quiet.  But when they had turned the pockets of my borrowed coat inside out and ripped the lining and made it otherwise as much the worse for their mishandling as it was for wear, the third man fetched a rope.

“Did you mean that, friend?—­about the hanging?” I asked, wondering if this should be my loophole of escape from the life grown hateful.

“Sure enough,” said the big man, coolly.  “You’d best be saying your prayers.”

I laughed.  “Were you wearing my coat and I yours, you might hang me and welcome; in truth, you may as it is.  Which tree will you have me at?”

The man stared at me as at one demented.  Then he burst out in a guffaw.  “Damme, if you bean’t a cool plucked one!  I’ve a mind to take you to the colonel.”

“Don’t do it, my friend.  Though I am something loath to be snuffed out by the men of my own side, we need not haggle over the niceties.  Point out your tree.”

“No, by God! you’re too willing.  What’s at the back of all this?”

“Nothing, save a decent reluctance to spoil your sport.  Have at it, man, and let’s be done with it.”

“Not if you beg me on your knees.  You’ll go to the colonel, I say, and he may hang you if he sees fit.  You must be a most damnable villain to want to die by the first rope you lay eyes on.”

“That is as it may be.  Who is your colonel?”

“Nay, rather, who are you?”

I gave my name and circumstance and was loosed of the hand-grip, though the third man dropped the cord and stepped back to hold me covered with his rifle.

“An Ireton, you say?  Not little Jock, surely!”

“No, big Jock; big enough to lay you on your back, though you do have a hand as thick as a ham.”

He ignored the challenge and stuck to his text.  “I never thought to see the son of old Mad-bull Roger wearing a red coat,” he said.

“That is nothing.  Many as good a Whig as I am has been forced to wear a red coat ere this, or go barebacked.  But why don’t you knot the halter?  In common justice you should either hang me or feed me.  ’Tis hard upon noon, and I breakfasted early.”