But shaking did not suffice.
"This infernal darkness helps to cloud his wits," suggested the
captain. "Flash a light before his eyes. Here, Tippet, your lantern,
please."
I continued shaking the prisoner, while the lantern was brought.
Suddenly the man gave a start, looked around into the black night, and
inquired in a husky, small voice:
"Who are you? Where are we?"
"We are your captors," said I, "and upon the Hudson River road, bound
for Kingsbridge. And now, sir, who are you?"
But the rays of the lantern, falling that instant upon his face,
answered my question for me.
"Cornelius!" I cried.
"What, sir? Why--'tis Mr. Russell!"
"Ay, and here is Tom Faringfield," said I.
"Well, bless my soul!" exclaimed the pedagogue, grasping the hand that
Tom held to him out of the darkness.
"Mr. Cornelius, since that is your name," put in De Lancey, to whom
time was precious. "Will you please tell us who commands yonder, where
we got the reception our folly deserved, awhile ago?"
"Certainly, sir," said Cornelius. "'Tis no harm, I suppose--no
violation of duty or custom?"
"Not in the least," said I.
"Why then, sir," says he, "since yesterday, when we relieved the
infantry there--we are dragoons, sir, though dismounted for this
particular service--a new independent troop, sir--Winwood's Horse--"
"Winwood's!" cried I.
"Ay, Captain Winwood's--Mr. Philip, you know--'tis he commands our
post yonder.
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