University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
THE ASTROLOGER AND OUR HEROINE.

It was on a fine, pleasant morning, toward
the latter part of September, 1780, that a
heavy double knock resounded through the
elegant mansion of Graham Percy, in Queen-street.
The servant who opened the door,
beheld a stranger, dressed in deep black, with
a strongly-marked, deadly-pale countenance,
and small, black, fiery eyes, that seemed capable
of penetrating to his very soul.

“I am called Dr. Montague,” said the
stranger.

“Ah! yes, sir—walk in, sir,” returned the
servant, bowing respectfully. “My young mistress
is expecting you, and has given orders
to have you at once conducted to her presence.”

“Lead the way,” rejoined the Doctor; and
he followed the servant up a broad flight of
stairs, to a beautiful little chamber, richly and
tastefully furnished.

In one corner of this chamber stood a high-Post
mahogony bedstead, surrounded by silk
curtains, and on a bed of down reposed the
patient. A table stood near, covered with
viols, pill-boxes, and the etceteras of a sick
room, and the very air had that peculiar medicinal
smell with which almost every one has,
sometime in the course of his life, been made
familiar.

As the physician entered the room, the silk
curtain at the head of the bed was thrust
aside by the patient, and at the same moment
a silvery voice said to the servant,

“You may retire, and let no one intrude,
as I wish to see the Doctor alone.”

“How does your ladyship find yourself this
morning?” inquired the physician, when the
servant had withdrawn.

“Better, much better, I thank you,” replied
the same silvery voice. “But Signor Carlini,
you must not forget to address me as Miss Du
Pont—for none of the domestics know the secret
of my rank, and might be surprised should
they overhear you.”

“I will remember, Miss Du Pont,” replied
the astrologer; “and for the same reason you
must not forget that I am Dr. Montague.”

“Ah, true, Doctor—we have both made a
mistake, and must be careful in future. You
find me much altered since you saw me last.”

“Some thinner, my lady—ah! Miss Du
Pont, I mean—but not so much as I had
counted on, from the length of your sickness.”

Rosalie Du Pont was much thinner and
paler than we first described her to the reader
in the “Female Spy;” but still she was very,
very beautiful, and her dark eyes seemed already
to have regained their original lustre
and vivacity. For two weeks had she been
confined to her bed by fever, and much of the
time had she been delirious; but she was now
convalescent, and rapidly regaining her
strength. Three days previous to the time
we now bring her again before the reader, she
had made her first effort to sit up during her
sickness; and though it was only for a few

minutes then, yet so rapidly had she since
gained strength, that she could now indulge
three hours in succession in a sitting posture.

“I suppose,” pursued Rosalie, “you feel
somewhat curious to know why I sent for
you?” and she raised herself in bed; “but the
truth is, Doctor, I am eager for news, and my
friends are too kind here to tell me any thing.
I knew you would, if I could get you here, and
therefore I sent you a note by my mute, and
gave directions to all the servants that should
one Dr. Montague call, to conduct him hither
without delay.”

“And have you then been kept ignorant of
all the important events that have taken place?”
inquired Carlini, with an air of surprise.

“Of every thing, sir—I have been treated
like a child.”

“But did not your mute—”

“Munee has been absent for several days,”
interrupted Rosalie, “and only came back
this morning, when I immediately sent him for
you. The poor lad (the astrologer was ignorant
of the sex of Munee) took on so about me,
that my aunt, on her return, made some excuse
to send him out of town, for fear he
might excite, and so do me harm. I am even
ignorant whether Sir Henry's plot succeeded
or not.”

“It was on the point of succeeding, when
Andre was taken prisoner.”

“Major Andre a prisoner!” eried Rosalie,
with a start of surprise.

“Ay, and the stars proclaim his doom.”

“When was he taken? and where?”

“On the twenty-third, near Tarrytown.
General Arnold, who escaped, and arrived in
the Vulture this morning, brought the sad intelligence
to General Clinton.”

“Then the traitor has escaped, and poor
Andre will have to suffer?”

“Ay, and not he only, I fear,” said Carlini,
sadly.

“What do you mean?”

“Our messenger!”

“Well, what of him?”

“Heavens! and have you not heard of that
even? He was taken attempting to pass the
British lines.”

“Well well?”

“He swallowed the ball, as I instructed him
o do, but the sentry saw him, informed his
commander, an emetic administered, the ball
thrown up, broke open, and the paper I had
prepared was found inside.”

“Oh! this is sad news!—and what was
done with the poor lad?”

“He was taken before Clinton and examined,
and a pardon offered him if he would reveal
his accomplices—for Clinton rightly conjectures
he was not a principal in the affair.”

“Well, well, what said he?”

“At first he peremptorily refused; but on
being informed that, unless he revealed his
dangerous secret, he should be led forth to immediate
execution, he begged for time to
consider the matter; and Sir Henry, hoping
his fears might overcome his scruples, ordered
him to be closely confined in the jail dungeon,
and questioned every day, until the whole
truth should be elicited.”

“Then he is still alive?”

“Yes, but will not be long, unless liberated,
for the General limited his time to ten days,
and that expires to-morrow morning.”

“And the poor youth has revealed nothing?”

“Not a word, though he has cunningly led
his captors to believe he would, and thus has
prolonged his life almost to its utmost limit.”

“And you think he will reveal nothing?”

“I am certain of it.”

“Then what will become of him?”

“Unless freed to-night, he will swing to-morrow.”

“Oh, heaven! this must not be!” said Rosalie,
shuddering.

“No, it must not, shall not be!” returned
the astrologer, firmly compressing his lips.

“Ha! can you save him?”

“I must.”

“How?”

“He must be liberated to-night, by one
means or another.”

“Surely you do not mean—”

“That he shall not die on the gibbet while
Carlo Carlini lives,” interrupted the astrologer,
speaking in a low, determined tone.

“Oh, heaven! I am ruined!”

“How so, lady?”

“You will make a rash attempt to save the
youth, will fail, and thus shall I be exposed.”

“But how then, my lady?” returned the
astrologer, in a cold, offended tone, drawing
himself up proudly. “Dost think me a base
born churl, that will betray thee?”

“O, no, no—I meant not that,” replied Rosalie,
quickly and earnestly; “but should you
be taken, Doctor, your place will be searched,
and I am fearful something may transpire to
fasten suspicion upon me.”

“Be not alarmed, Miss Rosalie,” rejoined
Carlini, in an altered tone. “I have taken
care to destroy every proof that I have a single
confederate. Every scrap of writing that has
been sent me, by any one leagued in our
cause, has been copied, without name or date,
and the original destroyed.”

“Ah, Doctor, you relieve my mind of much
uneasiness. But you are sure, Doctor, that
all have been destroyed?”

“I am.”

“And now tell me what you propose in regard
to this youth—how will you proceed to
save him?”

Carlini drew close to the bed, and for a few
minutes spoke rapidly, in a tone harely audible,

“Ah! I fear it will not succeed,” replied Rosalie—“but
I will pray for your success.”

“If I fail,” returned the other, impressively,
“Rosalie Du Pont and Carlo Carlini have met
for the last time. I have consulted the stars,
and found life and death, as it were, in an
equal balance, so that my mind is made up for
the worst.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Rosalie, a new thought
striking her—“I can save this youth without
any risk: strange I have not thought of it before.”

“How? how?” cried Carlini.

“That ring—behold that ring!” and Rosalie
extended her white, beautiful hand, and
pointed to one which lay on the table. “It
was presented to me by Sir Henry Clinton
through the unfortunate Major Andre, who
informed me at the time that any favor the
bearer of it might demand of the General,
should not be refused. Take it, and save the
youth.”

“No, no,” said Carlini, “it would not do—
for such a proceeding would be certain to expose
you.”

“How so?”

“Why, Clinton would seek to know what
interest you have in a miserable spy, and depend
upon it, suspicion would be excited, and
the consequences thereof it is impossible to foresee.”

“Then there is no other way but the one
you propose?”

“I know of none.”

“But could I not pretend that this youth
once saved my life, and that out of gratitude
I seek to save his?”

“Nay,” said Carlini, shaking his head, “the
risk is too great. No, I must try my own
plan. But give yourself no unnecessary alarm
—something tells me I shall succeed.”

“Oh, pray heaven you may, without getting
yourself into difficulty!”

After some further conversation, Carlini
rose to depart, when Rosalie detained him by
a few more questions.

“Have you seen Arnold?” she inquired.

“I have not,” replied the other.

“Nor do you know, I suppose, where he
will be located?”

“No—at present he is a guest of Sir
Henry.”

“The wretch! Oh, that he had been captured
instead of Andre!”

“So wish both friends and foes, Miss Du
Pont,” answered the astrologer, a dark frown
gathering on his brow. “But if heaven favors
our cause, he may yet be made to suffer for
his infamous treachery.”

“What mean you?”

“That if I succeed in freeing this youth,
without discovery, my next step will be to devise
a plan to rid the earth of a monster. But
I have talked too long, I fear, and so now I
will take my leave, wishing you a speedy recovery.

“But should your plan succeed, you will see
me again soon?”

“Ay, I will call to-morrow: if not, a last
farewell;” and he extended his hand to the
fair invalid.

“Farewell!” returned Rosalie, in a voice
of deep emotion. “Be cautious in all you do,
my friend, and may God prosper your undertaking.”

The astrologer now took his leave; but
scarcely had Rosalie been left to herself, when

a servant entered and handed her a letter. At
once breaking the seal, she read as follows:

“I have not heard from you for many days,
and I feel uneasy at your long silence. God
grant that no harm has befallen you! Were
any thing serious to happen to my kind benefactress,
Heaven only knows what its effect
would be upon me. You, and the cause I
serve, alone occupy my thoughts. Oh, that I
could see you, if only for a few minutes, to
fill your ear with the language of my heart!
Oh, tell me you are well, for I am desponding.
I write in haste, and know not whether this
scrawl will ever reach you. I am well. Major
Andre has been taken as a spy, which news
you will probably hear ere this reaches you.
What his fate will be, I leave you to imagine.
He and John Anderson are one.

“I close, with a heartfelt prayer for your
welfare. E. M.”

This letter bore no date, and as we have
shown, was worded with great caution, for there
was no certainty of its reaching the destination
for which it was intended. Rosalie read it twice,
and pressed it to her lips a dozen times, murmuring,

“Oh, that we could meet again!”

She then sank back on her pillow, and became
lost in a solemn reverie.