As he sat by the fire thinking somberly, a figure in the brush no great
distance away was watching him. Shepard, the spy, in the darkness had
passed with ease between the sentinels, using the skill of an Indian in
stalking or approaching, and now, lying well hidden, almost flat upon his
stomach, he surveyed the camp. He looked at Sherburne, sitting on a log
and brooding, and he made out Harry's figure wrapped in a blanket and
lying with his feet to the fire.
Shepard's mind was powerfully affected. An intense patriot, something
remote and solitary in his nature had caused him to undertake this most
dangerous of all trades, to which he brought an intellectual power and
comprehension that few spies possess. As Harry had discovered long since,
he was a most uncommon man.
Now Shepard as he gazed at this little group felt no hatred for them or
their men. He had devoted his life to the task of keeping the Union
intact. His work must be carried out in obscure ways. He could never
hope for material reward, and if he perished it would be in some
out-of-the-way corner, perhaps at the end of a rope, a man known to so
few that there would be none to forget him. And yet his patriotism was
so great and of such a fine quality that he viewed his enemies around the
fire as his brethren.
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