THE SECRET PASSAGE.
The steward immediately set about preparing the designated chamber for
occupancy, so that Peyton, on being carried up to it a few minutes
later, found it warm and lighted. It was a large, square, panelled
apartment, in which the fireplace of 1682 remained unchanged, a wide,
deep, square opening, faced with Dutch tile, of which there were
countless pieces, each piece having a picture of some Scriptural
incident. Into this fireplace, where a log was burning crisply, Peyton
gazed languidly as he lay on the bed, his clothes having been removed
by black Sam, who had been assigned to attend him, and who now lay in
the wide hall without. Williams had taken another look at the wound,
and expressed a favorable opinion of its condition. A lighted candle
was placed within Peyton's reach, on a table by the bedside. Williams
had brought him, at Elizabeth's orders, part of what remained from the
general supper. The captain felt decidedly comfortable.
He supposed that Colden, after abandoning the false chase, would make
another call at the house, but he inferred from Elizabeth's previous
conduct that she could and would send the Tory major and the rangers
back to King's Bridge without opportunity of discovering her guest.
And, indeed, Elizabeth had so provided. On returning to the
dining-room from her fateful interview with Peyton, she had answered
the astonished and inquisitive looks of Miss Sally and Mr. Valentine,
by saying, in an abrupt and reserved manner, "For important reasons I
have chosen not to give the prisoner up. He will stay in the house for
a time, and nobody is to know he is here. Please remember, Mr.
Valentine." The old man tried to recall Peyton's words in asking him
to send Elizabeth to the parlor, and made a mental effort to put this
and that together; failing in which, he decided to repeat nothing of
Peyton's conversation, lest it might in some way appear that he had
"lent aid." He now lighted his lantern, and sallied forth on his long
walk homeward over the windswept roads. Elizabeth, who, much to the
dismay of her aunt's curiosity, had not broken silence save to give
orders to the servants, now charged Williams to stay up till Colden
should return, and to inform him that all were abed, that there was no
news of the escaped prisoner, and that she desired the major to hasten
to New York and relieve her family's anxiety. This command the steward
executed about midnight, with the result that the major, utterly
tired out and sadly disappointed, rode away from the manor-house a
third time that night, more disgruntled than on either of the two
previous occasions. By this time the house was dark and silent,
Elizabeth and her aunt having long retired, the latter with a remark
concerning the effect of late hours on the complexion, a hope that Mr.
Valentine would not fall into a puddle on the way home, and a
curiosity as to how the rebel captain fared.
The rebel captain, afar in his spacious chamber, was mentally in a
state of felicity. As he ceased to remember the conquered, abashed
look Elizabeth's face had last worn, he ceased to feel ashamed of
having deceived her. Her earlier manner recurred to his mind, and he
jubilated inwardly over having got the better of this arrogant and
vengeful young creature. Even had she been otherwise, and had his life
depended on tricking her with a pretence of love, he would have valued
his life far above her feelings, and would not have hesitated to
practise on her a falsehood that many a gentleman has practised on
many a maid for no higher purpose than for the sport or for the
testing of his powers, and often for no other purpose than the maid's
undoing in more than her feelings. How much less, then, need he
consider her feelings when he regarded her as an enemy in war, of whom
it was his right to take all possible advantage for the saving of his
own or any other American soldier's life! These thoughts came only at
those moments when it occurred to him that his act might need
justification. But if he thought he was entitled to avail himself of
these excuses, he deceived himself, for no such considerations had
been in his mind before or during his act. He had proceeded on the
impulse of self-preservation alone, with no further thought as to the
effect on her feelings than the hope that her feelings would be moved
in his behalf. He had been totally selfish in the matter, and yet,
while it is true he had not stopped to reason whether the act was
morally justifiable or not, he had _felt_ that her attitude warranted
his deception, or, rather, he had not felt that the deception was a
discreditable act, as he might have felt had her attitude been
kindlier. Even had he possessed any previous scruples about that act,
he would have overcome them. As it was, the scruples came only when he
thought of that new, chastened, subdued look on her face. Only then
did he feel that his trick might be debatable, as to whether it became
a gentleman. Only then did he take the trouble to seek justifiable
circumstances. Only then did he have a dim sense of what might be the
feelings of a girl suddenly stormed into love. He had never been
sufficiently in love to know how serious a feeling--serious in its
tremendous potency for joy or pain--love is. In Virginia, in London,
and in Ireland, he had indulged himself in such little flirtations,
such amours of an hour, as helped make up a young gentleman's
amusements. But he had long been, as he was now, heart-free, and,
though it occurred to him that, in this girl, so great a change of
mien must arise from a pronounced change of heart, he had no thought
that her new mood could have deep root or long life. So, less from
what thoughts he did have on the subject than from his absence of
thought thereon, he lapsed into peace of mind, and went to sleep,
rejoicing in his security and trusting it would last. Her face did not
appear in his dreams. He had not retained a strong or accurate
impression of that face. His mind had been too full of other things,
even while enacting his impromptu love-scene, to make note of her
beauty. He had been sensible, of course, that she was beautiful, but
there had not been time or circumstance for flirtation. He had not for
an instant viewed her as a possible object of conquest for its own
sake. She had been to him only an enemy, in the shape of a beautiful
young girl, and of whom it had become necessary to make use. And so
his dreams that night were made up of wild cavalry charges, rides
through the wind, and painful crushings and tearings of his leg.
Elizabeth's thoughts were in a whirl, her feelings beyond analysis.
She was sensible mainly of a wholly novel and vast pleasure at the
adoration so impetuously expressed for her by this audacious
stranger, of a pride in his masterful way, of applause for that very
manner which she had rebuked as insolence. Was this love at last?
Undoubtedly; for she had read all the romances and plays and poems,
and, if this feeling of hers were a thing other than the love they
all described, they would have described such a feeling also.
Because she had never felt its soft touch before, she had thought
herself exempt from it. But now that it had found lodgment in her,
she knew it at once, from the very fact that in a flash she
understood all the romances and plays and poems that had before
interested her but as mere tales, whose motives had seemed arbitrary
and insufficient. Now they all took reality and reason. She knew at
last why Hero threw herself into the Hellespont after Leander, why
all that commotion was caused by Helen of Troy, why Oriana took
such trouble for Mirabel, why Juliet died on Romeo's body, why Miss
Richland paid Honeywood's debts. The moon, rushing through a cleft
in the clouds (she had opened one of the shutters on putting out the
candles), had for her a sudden beauty which accounted for the fine
things the poets had said of it and love together. Yes, because it
opened on her world of romance a magic window, letting in a wondrous
light, waking that world to throbbing life, clothing it with
indescribable charm, she knew the name of the key that had unlocked
her own heart. Now she knew them all,--the heroes, the fairy princes,
the knights errant; perceived that they were real and live,
recognized their traits and manners, their very faces, in that
bold, free, strong young rebel; he was Orlando, and Lovelace, and
Prince Charming, and AEneas, and Tom Jones, and King Harry the Fifth,
and young Marlowe, and even Captain Macheath (she had read forbidden
books guilelessly, in course of reading everything at hand), and
Roderick Random, and Captain Plume, and all the conquering, gallant,
fine young fellows, at the absurd weakness of whose sweethearts she
had marvelled beyond measure. She understood that weakness now, and
knew, too, why those sweethearts had, in the first delicious hours
of their weakness, trembled and dropped their eyes before those young
gentlemen. For, as she mentally beheld his image, she felt her own
cheeks glow, and in imagination was fain to drop her own eyes
before his bold, unquailing look. She wondered, with confusion and
unseen blushes, how she would face him at their next meeting, and
felt that she must not, could not, be the one to cause that
meeting. Right surely had this fair castle, that had withstood
many a long siege, fallen now at a single onslaught, and that but
a sham onslaught. The haughty princess in her tower had not longed
for the prince, but the prince had arrived, not to her rescue, but to
the taming of her. And alas! the prince, whom she fondly thought her
lover, was no more lover of her than of the picture of her female
ancestor on his bedroom wall!
She gave no thought to consequences, and, as for Jack Colden, she
simply, by power of will, kept him out of her mind.
It was three days before Peyton could walk about his room, and two
days more before he felt sufficient confidence in his wounded leg to
come down-stairs and take his meals with the household. And even then,
refusing a crutch, he used a stick in moving about. During the five
days when he kept his room, he was waited on alternately by Sam and
Cuff, who served at his bath and brought his food; and occasionally
Molly carried to him at dinner some belated delicacy or forgotten
dish. Williams, too, visited him daily, and expressed a kind of
professional satisfaction at the uninterrupted healing of the wound,
which the steward treated with the mysterious applications known to
home surgery. Williams lent his own clean linen to Harry, while
Harry's underwent washing and mending at the hands of the maid. Old
Valentine, who visited the house every day, the weather being cold and
sometimes cloudy, but without rain, called at the sick chamber now
and then, and filled it with tobacco smoke, homely philosophy, and
rustic reminiscence. Harry had no other visitors. During these five
days he saw not Elizabeth or Miss Sally, save from his window twice or
thrice, at which times they were walking on the terrace. In daytime,
when no artificial light was in the room to betray to some possible
outsider the presence of a guest, he had the shutters opened of one of
the two south windows and of one of the two west ones. Often he
reclined near a window, pleasing his eyes with the view. Westward lay
the terrace, the wide river, the leafy, cliffs, and fair rolling
country beyond. His eye could take in also the deer paddock, which the
hand of war had robbed of its inmates, and the great orchard northward
overlooking the river. Through the south window he could see the
little branch road and boat-landing, the old stone mill, the winding
Neperan and its broad mill-pond, and the sloping, ravine-cut, wooded
stretch of country, between the post-road on the left and the deep-set
Hudson on the right. The spire of St. John's Church, among the
yew-trees, with the few edifices grouped near it, broke gratefully the
deserted aspect of things, at the left. The spacious scene, so richly
filled by nature, had in its loneliness and repose a singular
sweetness. Rarely was any one abroad. Only when the Hessians or
Loyalist dragoons patrolled the post-road, or when some British
sloop-of-war showed its white sails far down the river, was there sign
of human life and conflict. The deserted look of things was in harmony
with the spirit of a book with which Harry sweetened the long hours of
his recovery. It was a book that Elizabeth had sent up for his
amusement, called "The Man of Feeling," and there was something in the
opening picture of the venerable mansion, with its air of melancholy,
its languid stillness, its "single crow, perched on an old tree by the
side of the gate," and its young lady passing between the trees with a
book in her hand, that harmonized with his own sequestered state. He
liked the tale better than the same author's later novel, "The Man of
the World," which he had read a few years before. Every day he
inquired about his hostess's health, and sent his compliments and
thanks. He was glad she did not visit him in person, for such a visit
might involve an allusion to their last previous interview, and he did
not know in what manner he should make or treat such allusion. He felt
it would be an awkward matter to get out of the situation of pretended
adorer, and he was for putting that awkward matter off till the last
possible moment.
It was necessary for him to think of his return to the army. Duty and
inclination required he should make that return as soon as could be.
His first impulse had been to send word of his whereabouts and
condition. But as Elizabeth had not offered a messenger, he was loath
to ask for one. Moreover, the messenger might be intercepted by the
enemy's patrols and induced by fear to betray the message. Then, too,
even if the messenger should reach the American lines uncaught, a
consequent attempt to convey a wounded man from the manor hall to the
camp might attract the attention of the vigilant patrols, and risk not
only Harry's own recapture, but also the loss of other men. Decidedly,
the best course was to await the healing of his wound, and then to
make his way alone, under cover of night, to the army. He knew that,
whatever might occur, it was now Elizabeth's interest to protect him,
for should she give him up, the disclosure that she had formerly
shielded him would render her liable to suspicion and ridicule. He
felt, too, from the manifestations he had seen of her will and of her
ingenuity, that she was quite able to protect him. So he rested in
security in the quiet old chamber, dreading only the task of taking
back his love-making. Of that task, the difficulty would depend on
Elizabeth's own conduct, which he could not foresee, and that in turn
on her state of heart, which he did not exactly divine. He knew only
that she had, in that critical moment of the troops' arrival, felt for
him a tenderness that betokened love. Whether that feeling had
flourished or declined, he could not, during the five days when they
did not meet, be aware.
It had not declined. She had gone on idealizing the confident rebel
captain all the while. The fact that he was of the enemy added
piquancy to the sentiments his image aroused. It lent, too, an
additional poetic interest to the idea of their love. Was not Romeo of
the enemies of Juliet's house? The fact of her being now his
protector, by its oppositeness to the conventional situation, gave to
their relation the charm of novelty, and also gratified her natural
love of independence and domination. Yet that very love, in a woman,
may afford its owner keen delight by receiving quick and confident
opposition and conquest from a man, and such Elizabeth's had received
from Peyton, both in the matter of the horse and in that of his
successful wooing. But the greater her softness for him, the greater
was her delicacy regarding him, and the more in conformity with the
strictest propriety must be her conduct towards him. Her pride
demanded this tribute of her love, in compensation for the latter's
immense exactions on the former in the sudden yielding to his wooing.
Moreover, she would not appear in anything short of perfection in his
eyes. She would not make her company cheap to him. If she had been a
quick conquest, up to the point of her first token of submission, she
would be all the slower in the subsequent stages, so that the
complete yielding should be no easier than ought to be that of one
valued as she would have him value her. All this she felt rather than
thought, and she acted on it punctiliously.
She did not confide in her aunt, though that lady watched her closely
and had her suspicions. Yet there was apparent so little warrant for
these suspicions, save the protection of the rebel in itself, that
Miss Sally often imagined Elizabeth had other reasons, reasons of
policy, for the sudden change of intention that had resulted in that
protection. Elizabeth's conduct was always so mystifying to everybody!
And when this thought possessed Miss Sally, she underwent a pleasing
agitation, which she in turn kept secret, and which attended the hope
that perhaps the handsome captain might not be averse to her
conversation. She had both read and observed that the taste of youth
sometimes was for ripeness. She might atone, in a measure, for
Elizabeth's disdain. She would have liked to visit him daily, with
condolence and comfortings, but she could not do so without previous
sanction of the mistress of the house, which sanction Elizabeth
briefly but very peremptorily refused. Miss Sally thought it a cruelty
that the prisoner should be deprived of what consolation her society
might afford, and dwelt on this opinion until she became convinced he
was actually pining for her presence. This made her poutish and
reproachfully silent to Elizabeth, and sighful and whimsical to
herself. The slightly strained feeling that arose between aunt and
niece was quite acceptable to Elizabeth, as it gave her freedom for
her own dreams, and prohibited any occasion for an expression of
feelings or opinions of her own as to the captain. But Miss Sally's
symptoms were observed by old Mr. Valentine, who, inferring their
cause, underwent much unrest on account of them, became snappish and
sarcastic towards the lady, watchful both of her and of Peyton, and
moody towards the others in the house. It was the old man's
disquietude regarding the state of Miss Sally's affections that
brought him to the house every day. For one brief while he considered
the advisability of transferring his attentions back from Miss Sally
to the widow Babcock, who had possessed them first, but, when he
tarried in the parsonage, his fears as to what might be going on in
the manor-house made his stay in the former intolerable, and led him
irresistibly to the latter.
Meanwhile the wounded guest, so unconscious of the states of mind
caused by him in the household, was the evoker of flutters in yet
another female breast. The girl, Molly, had read toilsomely through
"Pamela," and saw no reason why an equally attractive housemaid should
not aspire to an equally high destiny on this side of the ocean. But,
often as she artfully contrived that the black boy should forget some
part of the guest's dinner, and timely as she planned her own visits
with the missing portion, she found the officer heedless of her
smiles, engrossed sometimes in his meal, sometimes in his book,
sometimes in both. She conceived a loathing for that book, more than
once resisted a temptation to make way with it, and, having one day
stolen a look into it, thenceforth abominated the poor young lady of
it, with all the undying bitterness of an unpreferred rival.
Though Elizabeth and her aunt found each other reticent, they yet
passed their time together, breakfasting early, then visiting the
widow Babcock or some tenant, dining at noon, spending the early
afternoon, the one at her book or embroidery, the other in a siesta
before the fireplace, supping early, then preparing for the night by a
brisk walk in the garden, or on the terrace, or to the orchard and
back. Elizabeth had Williams provided with instructions as to his
conduct in the event of a visit from King's troops, and, to make
Peyton's security still less uncertain, she confined her walks to the
immediate vicinity. The house itself was kept in a pretence of being
closed, the shutters of the parlor being skilfully adjusted to admit
light, and yet, from the road, appear fast.
Thus Elizabeth, finding enjoyment in the very look and atmosphere of
the old house, fulfilled quietly the purpose of her capricious visit,
and at the same time cherished a dreamy pleasure such as she had not
thought of finding in that visit.
On the fifth day after Peyton's arrival, Williams announced that the
captain would venture down-stairs on the morrow. The next morning
Elizabeth waited in the east parlor to receive him. Whatever inward
excitement she underwent, she was on the surface serene. She was
dressed in her simplest, having purposely avoided any appearance of
desiring to appear at her best. Her aunt, who stood with her, on the
other side of the fireplace, was perceptibly flustered, being got up
for the occasion, with ribbons in evidence and smiles ready for
production on the instant. When the west door opened, and the awaited
hero entered, pale but well groomed, using his cane in such fashion
that he could carry himself erectly, Elizabeth greeted him with formal
courtesy. Though her manner had the repose necessary to conceal her
sweet agitation, an observant person might have noticed a deference, a
kind of meekness, that was new in her demeanor towards men. Peyton,
whose mien (though not his feeling) was a reflex of her own, was
relieved at this appearance of indifference, and hoped it would
continue. His mind being on this, the stately curtsey and profuse
smirks of Miss Sally were quite lost on him.
The three breakfasted together in the dining-room, a large and
cheerful apartment whose front windows, looking on the lawn, were the
middle features of the eastern facade of the house. The mass of
decorative woodwork, and the fireplace in the north side of the room,
added to its impression of comfort as well as to its beauty.
Conversation at the breakfast was ceremonious and on the most
indifferent subjects, despite the attempts of Miss Sally, who would
have monopolized Peyton's attention, to inject a little cordial
levity. After breakfast Elizabeth, to avoid the appearance of
distinguishing the day, took her aunt off for the usual walk, which
she purposely prolonged to unusual length, much to Miss Sally's
annoyance. Peyton passed the morning in reading a new play that had
made great talk in London the year before, namely, "The School for
Scandal." It was one of the new books received by Colonel Philipse
from London, by a recent English vessel,--plays being, in those days,
good enough to be much read in book form,--and brought out from town
by Elizabeth. The dinner was, as to the attitude of the participants
towards one another, a repetition of the breakfast. In the afternoon,
Peyton having expressed an intention of venturing outdoors for a
little air, Elizabeth assigned Sam to attend him, and said that, as
he had to traverse the south hall and stairs in going to his room, he
might thereafter put to his own service the unused south door in
leaving and entering the house. Harry strolled for a few minutes on
the terrace, but his lameness made walking little pleasure, and he
returned to the east parlor, where Elizabeth sat reading while her
aunt was looking drowsily at the fire. Peyton took a chair at the
right side of the fireplace, and mentally contrasted his present
security with his peril in that place on a former occasion.
The trampling of horses at a distance elicited from Elizabeth the
words, "The Hessian patrol, on the Albany road, as usual, I suppose."
But, the clatter increasing, she arose and looked through the narrow
slit whereby light was admitted between the almost closed shutters.
After a moment she said, in unconcealed alarm:
"Oh, heaven! 'Tis a party of Lord Cathcart's officers! They said at
King's Bridge they'd come one day to pay their respects. How can I
keep them out?"
Peyton arose, but remained by the fireplace, and said, "To keep them
out, if they think themselves expected, would excite suspicion. I will
go to my room."
Elizabeth, meanwhile, had opened the window to draw the shutter
close; but her trembling movement, assisted by a passing breeze, and
by the perversity of inanimate things, caused the shutter to fly wide
open.
She turned towards Peyton, with signs of fright on her face. "Back!"
she whispered. "They'll see you through the window. Into the
closet,--the closet!" She motioned imperatively towards the pair of
doors immediately beside him, west of the fireplace. Hearing the
horses' footfalls near at hand, and perceiving, with her, that he
would not have time to walk safely across the parlor to the hall, he
opened one of the doors indicated by her, and stepped into the
closet.
In the instant before he closed the door after him, he noticed the
stairs descending backward from the right side of the closet. He
foresaw that the British officers would come into the parlor. If they
should make a long stay, he might have to change his position during
their presence. He might thus cause sufficient sound to attract
attention. He would be in better case further away. Therefore, using
his stick and feeling the route with his hand, he made his way down
the steps to a landing, turned to the right, descended more steps, and
found himself in a dark cellar. He had no sooner reached the last step
than a burst of hearty greetings from above informed him the officers
were in the parlor.
This part of the cellar being damp, he set out in search of a more
comfortable spot wherein to bestow himself the necessary while.
Groping his way, and travelling with great labor, he at last came into
a kind of corridor formed between two rolls of piled-up barrels. He
proceeded along this passage until it was blocked by a barrel on the
ground. On this he sat down, deciding it as good a staying-place as he
might find. Leaning back, he discovered with his head what seemed to
be a thick wooden partition close to the barrel. Changing his
position, he bumped his head against an iron something that lay
horizontally against the partition, and so violent was this collision
that the iron something was moved from its place, a fact which he
noted on the instant but immediately forgot in the sharpness of his
pain.
Having at last made himself comfortable, he sat waiting in the
darkness, thinking to let some time pass before returning to the
closet stairway. An hour or more had gone by, when he heard a door
open, which he knew must be at the head of some other stairway to the
cellar, and a jocund voice cry: "Damme, we'll be our own tapsters!
Give me the candle, Mr. Williams, and if my nose doesn't pull me to
the barrel in one minute, may it never whiff spirits again!" A moment
later, quick footfalls sounded on the stairs, then candle-light
disturbed the blackness, and Williams was heard saying, "This way,
gentlemen, if you insist. The barrel is on the ground, straight
ahead." Whereupon Peyton saw two merry young Englishmen enter the very
passage at whose end he sat, one bearing the candle, both followed by
the steward, who carried a spigot and a huge jug.
Harry instantly divined the cause of this intrusion. The servants were
busy preparing refreshments for the officers, and, in a spirit of
gaiety, these two had volunteered to help Williams fetch the liquor
which he, not knowing Harry's whereabouts, was about to draw from the
barrel on which Harry sat.
It was not Elizabeth who could save him from discovery now.
The officers came groping towards him up the narrow passage.
Before the candle-light reached him, he rose and got behind the
barrel, there being barely room for his legs between it and the
partition. He had, in dressing for the day, put on his scabbard and
his broken sword. He now took his stick in his left hand, and drew his
sword with his right. He set his teeth hard together, thought of
nothing at all, or rather of everything at once, and waited.
"Hear the rats," said one of the Englishmen. It was Peyton's stealthy
movement he had heard.
"Ay, sir, there's often a terrible scampering of 'em," said Williams.
"Maybe I can pink a rat or two," said the officer without the candle,
and drew his sword. Harry braced himself rapidly against the woodwork
at his back. The candle-light touched the barrel.
At that instant Harry felt the woodwork give way behind him, and fell
on his back on the ground.
"What's that?" cried the officer with the candle, standing still.
"Tis the scampering of the rats, of course," said the other.
Harry had apprehended, by this time, that the supposed wooden
partition was in reality a door in the cellar wall. He now pushed it
shut with his foot, remaining outside of it, then rose, and, feeling
about him, discovered that his present place was in a narrow arched
passage that ran, from the door in the cellar wall, he knew not how
far. Recalling the bumping of his head, he inferred now that the iron
something was a bolt, and that his blow had forced it from its too
large socket in the stone wall.
He proceeded onward in the dark passage for some distance, then
stopped to listen. No sound coming from the door he had closed, he
decided that the officers were satisfied the noise had been of the
rats' making. He sheathed his broken sword, having retained that
and his stick in his fall, and went forward, hoping to find a
habitable place of waiting. Soon the passage widened into a kind of
subterranean room, one side of which admitted light. Going to
this side, Harry stopped short at the verge of a well, on whose
circumference the subterranean chamber abutted. The light came from
the well's top, which was about ten feet above the low roof of the
underground room, the passage from the cellar being on a descent. In
this artificial cave were wooden chests, casks, and covered
earthen vessels, these contents proclaiming the place a secret
storage-room designed for use in siege or in military occupation.
Harry waited here a while that seemed half a day, then returned
through the passage to the door, intending to return to the
cellar. He listened at the door, found all quiet beyond, and made
to push open the door. It would not move. From the feel of the
resistance, he perceived that the bolt had been pushed home again--as
indeed it had, by the steward, who had noticed it while tapping the
barrel, and had imputed its being drawn to some former carelessness
of his own.
Peyton, finding himself thus barred into the subterranean regions, was
in a quandary. Any alarm he might attempt, by shouting or pounding,
might not be heard, or, if heard, might reach some tarrying British.
In due time, Elizabeth would doubtless have him looked for in the
closet and then in the cellar, but, on his not being found there,
would suppose he had left the cellar by one of the other stairways.
Thus he could little hope to be sought for in his prison. Williams
might at any time have occasion to visit the secret storeroom, but, on
the other hand, he might not have such occasion for weeks. Harry
groped back to the cave, and sought some way of escape by the well,
but found none.
He then examined the cave more closely, and came finally on another
passage than that by which he had entered. He followed this for what
seemed an interminable length. At last, it closed up in front of him.
He tested the barrier of raw earth with his hands, felt a great round
stone projecting therefrom, pushed this stone in vain, then clasped it
with both arms and pulled. It gave, and presently fell to the ground
at his feet, leaving an aperture two feet across, which let in light.
He crawled the short length of this, and breathed the open air in a
small thicket on the sloping bank of the Hudson.[8] He crept to the
thicket's edge, and saw, in the sunset light, the river before him; on
the river, a British war-vessel; on the vessel, some naval officers,
one of whom was looking, with languid preoccupation, straight at the
thicket from which Harry gazed.