“I would send, if your kindness will permit, these letters.  They will make lighter the sorrow of them I love.”

Andy bowed his head and clutched at his throat to stifle the rising cry.  A broken pane of glass near-by permitted him to hear clearly every word.

One man on guard had a low, brutal face, the other, Andy noticed, had a more humane look.

“Have you the letters written?” asked the coarse fellow.

“I have.”  The master drew them from his breast and handed them to the speaker.

“One is to Washington,” laughed the man.  “Gad, you must take us for raw recruits.”

“I shall be beyond harming you soon.  That letter refers to personal matters, I swear.”  There was superb dignity in the voice.  “I would have his excellency know that I regret nothing.  I would do all over again, did the need arise.  Washington would see that my comrades understand that.”

The man with the letters gave vent to a brutal oath.  Then the quieter man spoke for the first.

“If we read the letters and find them harmless, I am for forwarding them.  To whom are the others addressed?”

“One to my family, the other—­to the woman I was to have married!” The master, for the first time, bowed his head, as if his burden were too heavy.

“I think we may carry out your request if the contents are what you imply.”

“And make a hero of this spy!” snarled the rougher man.  “Every word may have a double meaning, Colonel.  We have the papers he so carefully hid, but these letters may contain the same information, slyly concealed.”  He tore the letters across twice, and flung the pieces on the floor.  “Death and oblivion to all rebel spies!” he hissed.

The master never flinched, but his pale face grew paler.  “Is there anything else we can do for you?” asked the milder voice, “something safer than forwarding letters?”

“I should like to have the right generally granted a dying man, of seeing a minister.  One lives a few miles above here.  I am sure he would come.”

“And hear what you dare not write,” sneered the torturer.  “You are not the sort to need a death-bed scene; besides, there isn’t going to be any death-bed.  I dare say the parson would be glad enough to carry your so-called confession to Washington.  Bah! you are crude in your last moments.”

“Come,” impatiently spoke the fellow’s companion, “I have no stomach for your jests and brutality.”  Then, turning to the master, he said:  “We will leave you for a few hours.  It seems the only thing we can do for you.  Try to rest.”

Down the greenhouse the two went.  The master was alone!  He bowed his splendid head, and perhaps tasted, for the first time, the dregs of desolation.