“Hold,” warningly said the British officer, as he caught the hand.  “Small wonder the handkerchief becomes intolerable, with her to look at, but stay on it must till you are within doors.”

Jack’s hand clutched the officer’s arm.  “God! man, you are not deceiving me?”

“Speak up, Miss Meredith, and convince the sceptic that General O’Hara, though Irish, is yet a truth-teller on occasion.”

“Oh, Colonel Brereton,” said Janice, “I have just left Sir Frederick, who is at the point of death, and he gave me a message of farewell to you.  Can you not go to him for a moment?  ’T would be everything to him.”

Jack hesitated.  “My mission is so important—­General O’Hara, wilt deliver this letter with a proper explanation to his Lordship, while I see this friend?”

“Certainly.  If Miss Meredith will guide you and Lord Chewton to where he lies, I’ll see that Lord Cornwallis gets the letter.”

In the briefest possible time Brereton stood beside Mobray.  Yet when the officer in charge of him untied the handkerchief and stepped back out of hearing, Jack’s eyes did not seek his friend, but turned instead to the face of the girl standing beside him.  For a moment they lingered in a gaze so steadfast, so devouring, that, try as she would not to look at him, Janice’s eyes were drawn to his, despite herself.  With a long breath, as if relieved of some dread, Jack finally turned away and knelt beside his friend.  “Fred, old comrade,” he said, as he took his hand.

“Charlie!” gasped Mobray, weakly, as his eyes opened.  “Is ’t really you, or am I wandering?”

“’T is I, Fred, come into town with a flag.”

“You’ve beat old Britain, after all, have n’t you?”

“No, dear lad,” replied Jack, gently. “’T is the old spirit of England that has conquered, as it ever will, when fighting for its rights against those who would rob it of them.”

“True.  We forgot ’t was our own whelps, grown strong, we sought to subjugate.  And you had the better man to lead you, Jack.”

“Ay, and so we ever shall, so long as Britain makes men generals because they are king’s bastards.”

“Nay, Charlie, don’t let the sore rankle through life.  ’T is not from whence you came that counts; ’t is what you are.  I’d take your shame of birth, if I could rid myself of mine.  Fortune, position, and opportunity I’ve wasted, while you have won rank and glory.”

“And now have not one thing to make life worth the while.”

“Don’t say it, Charlie.  There’s something for you to live for still.  Put your hand into my shirt—­yes—­to the left—­ now you have it.”

Brereton drew forth a miniature set with brilliants; and as his eyes lit upon it, he gave an exclamation of surprise.

“’T is the one thing I concealed from my creditors,” moaned Sir Frederick, “and now I leave it to you.  Watch over and care for her for the sake of your love and of mine, Charlie.”