with bitter mirth, "yet one that I must thank for grace extended. Forty
stripes is, I believe, the proper penalty."

Haward, who had seated himself at his escritoire and was writing, turned
his head. "For my reference to your imprisonment in Virginia I apologize.
I demand the reparation due from one gentleman to another for the
indignity of a blow. Pardon me for another moment, when I shall be at your
service."

He threw sand upon a sheet of gilt-edged paper, folded and superscribed
it; then took from his breast a thicker document. "The Solebay,
man-of-war, lying off Jamestown, sails at sunrise. The captain--Captain
Meade--is my friend. Who knows the fortunes of war? If by chance I should
fall to-night, take a boat at the landing, hasten upstream, and hail the
Solebay. When you are aboard give Meade--who has reason to oblige me--this
letter. He will carry you down the coast to Charleston, where, if you
change your name and lurk for a while, you may pass for a buccaneer and be
safe enough. For this other paper"--He hesitated, then spoke on with some
constraint: "It is your release from servitude in Virginia,--in effect,
your pardon. I have interest both here and at home--it hath been many
years since Preston--the paper was not hard to obtain. I had meant to give
it to you before we parted to-night. I regret that, should you prove the
better swordsman, it may be of little service to you."

He laid the papers on the table, and began to divest himself of his coat,
waistcoat, and long, curled periwig. MacLean took up the pardon and held
it to a candle. It caught, but before the flame could reach the writing
Haward had dashed down the other's hand and beaten out the blaze. "'Slife,
Angus, what would you do!" he cried, and, taken unawares, there was angry
concern in his voice. "Why, man, 't is liberty!"