Kitabı oku: «With Ethan Allen at Ticonderoga», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XX
THE RIVAL COMMANDERS

At this time Benedict Arnold was thirty-five years of age, a restless, ambitious man who had sought frequently for an opportunity to distinguish himself in life, but who had never been willing to pay the world’s price for real success. He looked for a short-cut to power and fortune, and because of his impatience of restraint and the small chances of promotion, he had once deserted from the British army. When the Revolution broke out he was living in Hartford, Connecticut, where his business was that of druggist, and where his reputation was not of the most savory among the more respectable merchants of the town. His character, however, contained those elements of recklessness and personal daring which stand for bravery with many people, and he was something of a hero in the eyes of his thoughtless associates.

It seemed a peculiar fatality that both Arnold and Allen, coming from the same colony, should go to Bennington and be thrown together at just this time. It was a great moment in Ethan Allen’s life; the time was likewise pregnant with the elements which so influenced the after existence of Benedict Arnold. Ethan Allen’s mind was filled with a desire to help the Grants, and despite the military glory he craved, he entered into the scheme for the capture of Ticonderoga with a real hope of assisting the patriot cause. He was, indeed, a patriot from the bottom, ready to sacrifice his own interests as well as his life for the general good. Arnold saw in this rising of his fellow-Americans the long sought chance to distinguish himself and gain that power and influence which his nature craved. He saw in the proposed expedition to Ticonderoga a quick road to prominence. For him to see this chance was to grasp it.

Having no following of his own he planned to seize the troops gathered at Castleton and thus have his name go before the Continental Congress as the leader of the expedition. If it was successful the honor would be his; if it failed, his name would be quite as prominent and the affair might gain him advancement which he could hope for in no other way. He had no thought nor care for the men who, after weeks of toilsome effort, had gathered the little army together. Their feelings in the matter, or their standing with their followers, did not enter into his calculations.

That, indeed, was the secret of Benedict Arnold’s life. He never thought of others. He was ever for self. As a boy we read that he was cruel to those smaller and weaker than himself, being the “bully” of the school and of the town in which he lived. He was ever utterly reckless of his reputation and his greatest pleasure seemed to be found in some form of malicious mischief. Personally, however, he did not lack boldness and physical courage. It is told of him that, being dared by other boys, he once seized the arms of a waterwheel and followed its revolutions half a dozen times, being completely submerged in the millrace at every turn. The danger to a handful of illy-armed troops attacking a fortress like Ticonderoga appealed strongly to the man’s reckless daring.

Although Allen and Warner came from the same colony as the newcomer, neither knew nor recognized Arnold as he approached the group of officers at this important moment. But Arnold was not a man who could be for long ignored. His military bearing, his dress, and the hauteur of his countenance attracted the attention of the three leaders. “Sir,” said Allen, courteously, “you evidently have some communication to make to us?”

“I have, sir,” replied Arnold, calmly. “But not having the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with you – ”

“I am Colonel Allen, commander of this expedition,” interrupted the other, brusquely. “This is Colonel Easton; this Major Warner. What is your desire?”

“I am Colonel Benedict Arnold,” said the newly arrived officer, “and bear a commission from the Massachusetts Committee of Safety with authority to take command of the troops here gathered, or which shall be gathered, and proceed against Forts Ticonderoga and Crown Point,” and he drew the commission from his pocket and presented it to the company.

Allen’s ruddy face paled for an instant and his eyes flashed. “Do I understand you aright?” he exclaimed, and his voice was sharp enough to be heard by many of the troops near by. “You have come to take command of these men?” and his gesture took in the lines of waiting patriots.

“I have, sir. There is my commission.”

Allen’s wrath got the better of his politeness and he struck the offending paper from Arnold’s hand. Warner stooped hastily and secured it. He and Easton examined the document with angry scrutiny. Both had given way with cheerfulness to Ethan Allen’s superiority in the matter; but this affront was personal to them as well as to their beloved leader. Allen, with his arms akimbo and fire flashing from his eyes faced the suave and cold intruder. “Sir!” he exclaimed, “I do not care to see your commission, nor do I acknowledge your authority. I bear a commission from a higher court and recognize an authority higher still.”

“What do you mean, Colonel Allen?” demanded Arnold, for the moment fearing that the Green Mountain leader had indeed received some appointment from the Continental Congress, perhaps, which would invalidate his own.

“I mean, sir, that my authority is based upon some slight precedence in this matter–a prior claim which dates back some years now, Colonel Arnold. I have led some of these men in defending their homes on more than one occasion and by their free act of will they have made me their leader now.”

“Your commission, sir? Where is it?” inquired Arnold, cool again, upon finding that his antagonist’s rights were based upon a matter of sentiment.

“It is there, sir!” cried Allen, furiously, turning and pointing to the lines of waiting men. “It is there, sir,–writ on the hearts of those Green Mountain Boys. And a higher commission than any Committee of Safety can seal.”

The words were heard by the files of waiting troops and already they had begun to murmur. That their beloved leader should be displaced by any person–no matter how high his office–was more than distasteful to them. At once they were in revolt.

“Ethan Allen forever!” arose the cry. “We’ll not march without he commands us!” and more than one threw down his arms. Arnold found himself facing the possibility of marching upon Ticonderoga alone, for the mutiny seemed general.

“Sir, sir!” exclaimed Warner, in anxiety, addressing Arnold. “You see the feeling of these true-hearted men. No person can come here and take command of them in this way. We are not regular troops. We are banded together for the good of all, but we do not yet acknowledge the authority of a sister colony. We desire to be a commonwealth of our own here in the Grants and have already been disturbed enough by usurpers from outside. Reconsider this, I beg of you. For if you persevere the expedition must fail and that which might result in great good to our struggling brethren, will end in harm because of this folly.”

Arnold, if ambitious and unfeeling, already saw that he was beaten. He was not obstinate enough to do that which would be sure to redound to his own hurt and discredit. He had not expected such opposition, for he did not know the veneration in which the Green Mountain Boys held Ethan Allen. Now, seeing himself undone, he did that which for the time endeared him to all. His countenance cleared; a frank emotion played upon his features and advancing a step toward Ethan Allen he said in a clarion voice, heard by all:

“Colonel Allen, you have precedence here after all. I was mistaken in my premises. Give me a musket and let me march in the ranks. I shall be proud to be led by so gallant a commander.”

Instantly a volley of cheers broke out among the soldiery, and Allen who, above all men, could appreciate such generosity, offered his hand cordially. “Egad, sir!” he cried, “you are a man after my own heart. When there are so many jealous cattle running about the woods, it is a pleasure to meet with a man. Give me your hand, Colonel Arnold! There is glory enough in this campaign for all, and you shall share the command with me, if you will.”

He turned then to his followers. “Men of the Green Mountains!” he cried, “we are to march at once. Fall in! And with your courage and the help of Jehovah we shall succeed in our undertaking. To your places, gentlemen,” to the minor officers, “and Colonel Arnold and I will lead you.”

Amid cheers the column moved forward into the forest and took up its line of march toward the shore of Lake Champlain. Never had the Green Mountain wilderness echoed to the tread of such a body of men. And they were worth more than a passing glance for they represented the spirit which made the American Revolution one of the greatest struggles of the ages. Like the campaigns of Joshua of old, the battles of the American yeoman with the trained military of King George proved that, when guided by the God of Battles, the weak can overcome the strong. These men, fighting for their homes and firesides, were inspired with a confidence that overcame even impossibilities. They possessed a faith in their cause and in their leader like that which threw down the walls of Jericho and defeated the allied armies of Canaan.

Even had De la Place and his garrison been informed of their approach, and of their numbers, he would doubtless have laughed at the possibility of their successfully attacking his fortress. And one there was among the Green Mountain Boys who feared that news of the expedition had already gone to the British commander. Upon his return from the Otter, Enoch Harding had sought and obtained an audience with Colonel Allen, and to him had related his adventure with the Yorker whom he believed to be his deadly enemy, and told his suspicions regarding the man’s business in the region. But Ethan Allen was not to be shaken in his confidence, or in his intentions.

“I have an honest man at Ticonderoga now, Master Harding,” he said. “If spies were through the country we should hear of them from other sources. But you did right to come to me with this, and if Simon Halpen falls into our hands I will hang him for his past offenses, if not for this attempt on your life.”

The appearance of the American troops was welcomed along the route with acclamation. Many settlers, knowing the course the army would take, had waited to join it as it passed their own doors. Shopkeepers and mechanics left their work and fell into the ranks; the farmer left his plow in the furrow, seized his rifle, and joined his neighbors; a woodsman who was “letting sunlight” into the gloom of the virgin forest, hid his axe under a fallen log and with a deadlier weapon on his shoulder followed in the train; the hunter on the trail of the frightened buck saw the column coming through the forest road and allowed his prey to escape while he turned his attention to matters of graver moment. Thus the army of Americans was swelled from hour to hour by new recruits.

To camp at night was a small matter to these hardy pioneers. The scouts sent out upon either flank acted as hunters and fresh meat was abundant. Besides, every man was fairly supplied with provisions brought from Castleton. Inspired by the energy of Ethan Allen the column rapidly approached the shore of the lake. While some miles away, however, the group of officers riding ahead of the main body, suddenly descried a tall woodsman striding through the forest toward them. “Who is this chap, Major?” demanded Allen of his friend Warner. “Had I not sent ’Siah Bolderwood to watch Old Ti like a cat at a rathole, I’d declare this to be he.”

“And so it is, Colonel!” returned the other. “Something of moment must have sent our lengthy friend this way, for he is a man who knows how to obey orders,” and he spurred forward to meet the footman.

“Wall, Captain,” was ’Siah’s greeting, squinting around the horseman at the long column of marching men, “you look like you had a slather of folks yonder. I guess there’ll be something in the wind around Old Ti ’fore long, hey?”

“And how is it you are not there, Bolderwood?” demanded Warner.

“Wall, I got an idee into my noddle an’ leavin’ Smith and Brown to watch Old Ti, for it might run away ’fore ye git there, ye know, I trotted down this way ter see the Colonel. Ev’rything is safe there so fur, but there’s one thing we’ve neglected.”

“What is that, Bolderwood?” cried Allen, riding up and hearing this last sentence.

“Why, Colonel, although I count you as purty near ekal to ’most anything, an’ them fellers behind ye seemed armed to deal with any foe, still I calkerlate you ain’t expectin’ ol’ Champlain ter open for ye to pass over dry shod, hey?”

Allen smote his thigh with his gauntleted hand and the expression on his face changed. “Right, ’Siah! I can’t forgive myself for my thoughtlessness. We must have boats–and plenty of them–to cross to the fort.”

“That’s what struck me last night, Colonel. So I left the others ter watch the fort–an’ a sarpint that wriggled into aour han’s yesterday–and come kitin’ down here for orders.”

“A serpent, ’Siah?” said Warner. “Who is it?”

“One o’ them Yorkers, an’ one that I’ve not had my eyes on–let alone my hands–for a good many months. An’ I see a chap behind you there that’ll be some interested in meeting the rascal, too.”

’Siah had looked past the officers and, in the very front rank, caught sight of his young friend Enoch. The latter waved his hand to the tall woodsman and Bolderwood, knowing that discipline was lax on the march, beckoned Enoch forward. “Come here, youngster, and hear what news I’ve got for ye,” he cried. But Allen caught at the matter instantly, and understood to whom Bolderwood referred by his appellation of “the serpent.”

“You mean to say you’ve got Simon Halpen?” he asked.

“That’s the identical sarpint, Colonel,” declared the ranger. “We caught him tryin’ ter cross to Old Ti and thought it was best, under the sarcumstances, ter keep him close till this leetle business is over. What he was doin’ riskin’ his carcass on this side of the line is more’n I can tell – ”

“The boy was right, Major!” exclaimed Allen, turning to Warner. “Harding met the fellow while he was stirring up our folks in the Otter country last week. He thought he was up to some rascality then, and the fellow did try to take his life.”

“Tried it again, did he?” cried ’Siah, as Enoch approached. “Is that so, Nuck?”

Enoch repeated his adventure with the murderous Halpen. “If I’d knowed this,” the ranger declared, “I’d saved the grub the scoundrel is eating.”

“We’ll make an example of him when we reach the lake, ’Siah,” declared the leader of the Green Mountain Boys. “But now for this other matter. It is most important. Every bateau within reach must be secured.”

“I know where there are three of ’em. And there may be others down the lake furder.”

“You shall have charge of this, Bolderwood!” the commander cried. “I make you our captain of scouts. Take any reasonable number of men with you and hurry ahead. Every moment is precious.”

“Good!” said the ranger. “With Smith and Brown I won’t need but eight or ten more. And I’ll begin by taking young Nuck here. He’s a good oar.”

“Take whom you wish. We depend on you,” replied Allen, and within the hour the ranger and his party, including Enoch Harding, set off on their mission ahead of the more slowly moving army.

CHAPTER XXI
THE ESCAPE OF THE SPY

In sixteen hours ’Siah Bolderwood had traveled from his camp on the shore of Lake Champlain opposite the frowning walls of Fort Ticonderoga; when the long ranger was in a hurry he did not spare himself. Perhaps no other man in the Vermont wilderness could have covered so much ground afoot as he, within the time. But he set off now on his return journey, with nearly a dozen men at his heels, as fresh as though he had rested for a night instead of for an hour. His muscles were seemingly of steel and his limbs of iron. He led at such a pace that Enoch Harding, who came first behind him, could scarcely keep up with his stride and place his feet, Indian fashion, in the prints of his friend’s moccasins.

The company of scouts traveled in single file and, having no need to follow the wood-road on which the army was marching, they soon left that out of view. ’Siah found an Indian path which suited him far better than the broader trail, for it would bring them much sooner to the lake, and for hour after hour he strode on with scarce a look behind him to see how his companions kept up. The men he had chosen, save Enoch, were tried and trained woodsmen, with powers of endurance second only to his own. And as for the lad whom he loved, he knew his high spirit and pride. Enoch Harding would not fall behind until the last ounce of his strength had been expended.

Finally the party reached a little stream and here the leader gave the signal to halt. Enoch flung himself down on the short sward and fell asleep almost instantly. ’Siah looked down upon him in some pride. “That’s the stuff we make men of in this country,” he said aloud. “I knew his father as well as I know myself. The lad will be another Jonas Harding.”

“He’ll hold us back if we’ve to keep up this pace, ’Siah,” said one of the others, doubtfully.

“Nay, you’re mistaken there, neighbor. You and I will travel until we feel that it ain’t best for us to go any furder. Enoch’ll keep up till he drops. He won’t hold us back.”

And it was true. Others of the party cried “enough!” before the afternoon was over; but the youth, his lips pale and compressed and the perspiration fairly pouring from his limbs, would have died before he acknowledged that the pace was too great for him. At night ’Siah called another halt and they ate heartily of such provisions as they carried and then lay down to rest. But ’Siah arranged for a guard. They were nearing the lake now and some ill-affected settler (there were several families of Tories near Champlain) might see them and wonder what such a large party of armed men was doing here. If the news of the approach of the main army did not travel ahead, it would be more because of good fortune than good management.

The party broke up into groups of two and three in the morning and went different ways to the shore. It was agreed that, where the settlers who owned boats were known to be staunch Whigs, it would be safe to tell them for what purpose their crafts were needed. But several boats were owned by Tories and royalist sympathizers and these people must be deceived for, although the scouts were doubtless well armed and determined enough to take the boats without saying “by your leave,” such a proceeding might be disastrous to the expedition.

’Siah Bolderwood chose Enoch as his companion and went himself toward the home of a farmer who stoutly upheld the King and his ministers and who had, in fact, held the title of his land from New York through all the years of trouble between his neighbors and the Albany courts. His homestead, however, was in such an out-of-the-way place and so secluded that the Green Mountain Boys had left him unmolested. Now Bolderwood was determined to have the roomy canoe and a large bateau which he was known to possess.

“But if the pesky critter gits an inkling of what we’re up to, he’ll start for Old Ti–that he will!” the ranger said to Enoch. “We gotter get around him somehow. An’ you leave it ter me. Ye better keep aout o’ sight, I reckon, anyway; numbers might make the ol’ codger suspicious.”

So Enoch hid in the wood surrounding the clearing on the lake shore while his tall friend went toward the Tory’s door. The old man, who depended upon his nephew and a slave or two to do his work, was sitting looking out across the lake. He was too far away to distinguish the battlements of Ticonderoga, but he happened to be looking in that direction when Bolderwood presented himself. “Neighbor!” said the latter, in a most friendly tone, “ye look hearty. What’s the news?”

“Humph!” grunted the old man, staring at the Yankee shrewdly, “you’re the feller that’s been clearin’ land above us yander, ain’t ye?”

“That I can’t deny, sir,” responded the ranger. “An’ jest for the sake o’ bein’ neighborly, I’m down here ter arsk a favor.”

“What is it?” grunted the old man, doubtfully.

“Why, my partner an’ me have got a job to do, an’ we’re wantin’ ter borry one or both o’ your boats,” and he pointed down to the water where, at the end of a little dock, the big flatboat and a long canoe were both moored. The old man could not see the boats without rising, but this he did as though to make sure that they were in their places. “What ye want ’em for?” he asked. “An’ howsumever, I can’t lend ye more than one o’ them. We might want the other ourselves.”

“What for?” asked Bolderwood, with the usual freedom of the community, and likewise proving himself a true Yankee by responding to one question with another.

“Might wanter go acrosst,” said the farmer. “They say there’s goin’ ter be a lot o’ reinforcements come up to Old Ti an’ my nevvy and I want to see ’em when they come.”

“That’s what we’re wantin’ the boats for–to go acrosst to the fort,” said ’Siah, with apparent frankness. “We’ve got some things to take over an’ it’s too fur to swim.”

“I sh’d say it was!” exclaimed the Tory. “Then I take it the report that reinforcements air comin’ is true? Captain De la Place is buyin’ cattle to feed the garrison?”

“I reckon he’ll need a good many to feed all that’s comin’,” returned Bolderwood, non-committingly.

“Wall, I can’t lend ye both, sir,” declared the old man. “The canoe wouldn’t do ye much good, though ’tis a master big one. Seems ter me there’s a good deal o’ boatin’ on the lake to-day. I seen two barges go along north a’ready. Folks goin’ fishin’ I s’pose.”

“Like enough–like enough,” declared ’Siah hastily. “I’ll git right down and take the bateau.”

“Ain’t ye got no one ter help ye?”

“I’ll find my partner somewhere up the lake. He was lookin’ for boats, too,” returned the ranger.

He started to descend the bank and the old farmer arose and hobbled after him. The instant he reached the brink where he could again see his little dock, he gave voice to an exclamation of disgust and anger. “There it be! That Pomp is the most no ’count critter that ever eat smoked hog. He was a usin’ that canoe this mornin’, an’ now look at it!”

Seemingly the big canoe had slipped her moorings and was floating rapidly around the wooded point near the dock. ’Siah might have been astonished a little himself had he not had sharper eyes than the Tory. He saw that several articles of apparel lay in the canoe and he recognized Enoch Harding’s old otter-skin cap. “Hold on, sir!” he cried. “No matter about calling your hands from the field to git it. I’ll have that canoe in a jiffy.”

He ran down the steep bank, unfastened the bateau, and with a powerful shove sent it out into the lake. There were two long sweeps aboard and with one of these ’Siah quickly propelled the heavy craft in the same direction as the canoe–down the lake. The latter craft was scarcely out of sight of the old man when the bateau came along side. There was nothing showing of the swimmer but his head and one hand which clutched the painter.

“Come aboard here, ye young rascal!” exclaimed the woodsman, with a chuckle. “You’ll have that whole spatter of Tories arter us. Couldn’t you hide your clothes better ’n that? Might have left ’em ashore. If the old gentleman hadn’t been blinder’n a bat at midday, he’d seen ’em.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Enoch admitted, rather ruefully, climbing over the bow of the canoe and then passing the thong to ’Siah, who fastened it to the stern of the bateau. “I heard him say you couldn’t have both, and I thought it too bad. This canoe will hold a dozen men.”

“Wall, grab that sweep. Never mind your clothes just now. I warrant ye’ll keep warm enough till we git to the camp.”

The newly made captain of scouts and his young companion were by no means the first to reach the rendezvous on the shore opposite Ticonderoga. Nor is it to be supposed that the boats being there collected were brought boldly up in daylight. They were hidden in little coves near by, which could be reached by the scouts without attracting attention from the fort, to be brought after dark to the landing from which Ethan Allen expected to embark his troops. There were but two craft moored opposite the camp which Bolderwood and his companions had occupied for more than a week. Bolderwood held the title of a long strip of land along the lake shore, but he had never built a cabin. A shack, or hut, of branches was all the shelter the trio enjoyed.

Here the ranger and Enoch found several of their friends beside Smith and Brown in waiting. The shore of the lake on this side had been fairly scoured for bateaus. They dared not cross to the New York side to obtain boats, for by so doing they would be sure to excite suspicion. With those already obtained and some which their companions were now gone for, the expedition must be content. The one mistake of their bold leader might bring about failure to the enterprise; yet so confident were they in Ethan Allen’s ability that they firmly believed he would find some way to overcome the lack of transportation. The forced march of the scouts the day before, and for a good share of the night as well, had brought them to the lake long before the expedition itself could possibly reach the landing. Besides, the leaders would hold back until after dark. The attack upon the fortress must be accomplished under the cover of night. Bolderwood hoped, when he saw the meagre provision he was able to make for transportation, that the army would arrive early enough to allow of two, and even three, voyages to be made from shore to shore, that the entire force might take part in the attack.

To Enoch, however, there was another matter of grave interest to be attended to when he and his tall friend arrived at the temporary camp. He wished to see the spy whom Bolderwood had mentioned to Ethan Allen. The ranger, too, looked sharply about the camp for the man. “Where’s that slippery critter we captured the other night?” he asked. “If he gits away before Colonel Allen comes there’ll be trouble for some of us.”

“We’d better have hung him up and so saved his food,” grunted Brown, who, because the Yorkers had burned his house and driven his wife and children into the forest, had no love for anybody from the west side of the lake.

“You haven’t let him go?” demanded Bolderwood.

“Nay, ’Siah. He’s safe enough,” returned Smith. “He’s yonder behind the camp. He’d be an eel or a sarpint to wriggle out of them thongs.”

“A sarpint he is,” declared Bolderwood, and strode away to look at the prisoner. Enoch followed him. There, sitting with his back against a tree, his ankles fastened together and a strong deer thong wrapped about his body and about the tree itself, was Simon Halpen. When he saw the ranger he scowled. When he observed the boy, however, his eyes flashed and the blood rushed to his face. “I reckon he knows ye, Nuck,” said the ranger.

“What are you going to do with me?” demanded the Yorker, with bravado. “You’ll all suffer for this outrage, I promise ye! Wait until I get to Albany – ”

“And you ever see Albany again you’re a lucky man,” said Bolderwood, satisfying himself that the bonds were tight. “The Colonel will see to ye, my fine bird.”

Enoch still remained before his enemy when the ranger went back to the camp. The villain returned his glance boldly. “You are satisfied now, I suppose?” he muttered.

“Not yet,” replied young Harding.

“I shall be avenged!” declared Halpen, with a burst of wrath. “If I am injured I have powerful friends who will punish you. I care nothing for Ethan Allen – ”

“A power higher than Colonel Allen will punish you,” Enoch said, gravely.

“Pooh! I care nothing for your Whig courts. You had best do what you can for me, Master Harding.”

“I will leave you to the punishment you deserve. And you will receive it.”

“What have I done, I’d like to know?” exclaimed the prisoner. “It was not my fault that your house was burned and your mother and you placed in danger of your lives. It was a mistake.”

“Was it a mistake when you crept to my camp the other night and fired at me as I lay sleeping beside the fire?” demanded the boy, sternly.

The red flush left the prisoner’s cheek then. “What–what do you mean?” he gasped.

“You know well what I mean. See here!” Enoch showed him the hole in the breast of his coat. “That was made by your bullet.”

“The boy’s life is charmed!” muttered Halpen.

“You had much better have used your gun-stock, Master Halpen. You would have been surer to kill me then.”

At this an expression of positive terror came into the prisoner’s features. “I am not a murderer,” he exclaimed. “You are mistaken if you think that I fired at you.”

“It is true I cannot prove it,” Enoch replied. “But something else I can prove.” He advanced a step nearer to the man. “Do you remember where you hid the moose hoofs, Simon Halpen?”

The prisoner shrank back against the tree and his eyes fairly glared up at the youth. “You–you – ” he gasped.

“Yes. They are found. We now know how my poor father was killed. And you were seen running from the place with his blood upon your clothes and upon your gun. Even your Albany courts would punish you for that!” Then the boy, unable to trust himself longer in the presence of the man who had so injured him, hastily left the spot.

And the prisoner–how did he feel while tied to that tree, waiting for the judgment which was to fall upon him for his crimes? No human being but the criminal himself can ever appreciate half the agony of the condemned. It was long since discovered that the gift of speech was given man to conceal his thoughts. To the man of strong will the face is a mask to conceal his feelings. And Simon Halpen was not a weakling. He may have betrayed some emotion when accused by Enoch; it was a small part only of what he felt.