At the War Prison, in a crisis now rapidly approaching, it was destined that the young man, Cecil Stark, should assume sudden prominence. Thousands of French and American prisoners were confined at Prince Town during this period; and with the latter were herded a company of coloured men who had been captured in the enemy\'s battleships or privateers. Bitterly was this circumstance resented by the Americans; but, worse than their slaves they found the presence of some seven hundred French, who shared the granite hospitality of Prison No. 4. These poor tatterdemalions had added to their necessary griefs by personal folly. They had gamed away their very shoes and blankets; and they were thrust hither by the hundred, and kept alive, like cattle, with scarcely a rag to cover their nakedness.

Many times the Americans protested with indignation against this wrong, and implored that these forlorn French might be removed from amongst them. But months elapsed before their reasonable complaints were heard, and the baser sort of soldier guards was wont to laugh and ask the Americans wherein their own fantastic and ridiculous habiliments presented a better appearance than the Frenchmen\'s skins.

Stark and certain of his companions were thus challenged on a day in autumn as they patrolled together along the exercise yard. Beside him walked Commodore Jonathan Miller, who had commanded the United States frigate Marblehead when she was taken, while behind them followed one William Burnham, a junior officer on the same vessel, and James Knapps, sometime boatswain of the Marblehead. These four men, together with three others presently to be mentioned, formed a little community of friendship, and had entered into a compact to share their means, and make common cause against the hardships that encompassed them. They were known as "the Seven" and their companions held them in high esteem, for it happened that Stark was among the fortunate and obtained regular advances from home. With his money he did no little good, and not the Seven only, but many more who suffered from poverty or disease, had found him a willing friend.

A sentry perched before his box on the prison wall heard Stark grumble to William Burnham and made a jesting remark.

"Don\'t the Frenchmen\'s skins fit \'em as well as your clothes fit you?" he said.

Whereupon Burnham, a mere lad with red hair and a round freckled face, made such a fiery retort that the soldier scowled and fingered his musket.

"You ask that—you coarse-hearted lout? Their skins don\'t fit \'em. Count their ribs; look at the bones sticking out of their elbows and ankles. No prisoner\'s skin can fit him in this cursed country, for you starve us; your agents rob us; you strip your scarecrows to clothe us!"

They passed on, and Commodore Miller spoke.

"The Americans are treated better elsewhere, however," he remarked. "At Chatham, and at Stapleton too, they receive more considerate attention. There, at least, they obtain what the British Government is pleased to give them."

"And the markets shut agin us—that\'s consarned robbery," said James Knapps. "\'Tis the loss of the market that angers me most past bearing."

"A very great injustice," answered Miller sadly. "It cannot be known. The French are permitted to trade with the people of the country. Farmers and farmers\' wives are admitted into the great court and they barter regularly there. But we can only get our cheese, or butter, or eggs for our sick folk through the French, and they charge five-and-twenty per centum above the market prices."

"So we are robbed every way," said Knapps. He was a powerful, middle-aged man, of genial aspect and ordinary appearance; but another American who now approached and walked beside his friends, discovered a countenance that had called for second glances in any company. He was tall, extraordinarily thin and very high-shouldered. His eyes were of the palest grey, his high cheek-bones seemed nearly thrusting through the skin. He was almost bald, and his woollen cap came down over his ears. A flat nose and a fan-shaped tuft of hair upon his chin completed the man\'s physiognomy; and much bitterness usually sat upon these strange features.

"What say you, Leverett?" asked Stark of the new-comer.

David Leverett, who had been a carpenter on the Marblehead, and lost one hand in the engagement which ended that vessel\'s career, waved his stump to the sky.

"I say \'tis small wonder that some on us enlist in the King\'s service, damn his eyes! It\'s their dirty, devilish game ter make us. They torture us and starve us and freeze us, till narry a one but would Judas his own mother, if \'twas only for the sight of salt water again."

Cecil Stark nodded.

"That is what they mean, sure enough. Another batch came up yesterday from the Hector prison ship. Many, they say, have gone into the King\'s service."

"\'Tis the refinement of cruelty to make a man turn against his motherland," mused Miller; "yet there were a few good Englishmen on the Marblehead."

"Then there\'s Blazey," continued Mr. Leverett, who seldom opened his mouth save to utter a grievance. "Call him an Agent! One of the carved stone turrets we are going ter fix on the church tower would be a better agent than him. I wish I had the handling of the skunk."

"Lordy! Have done with your growling," said Knapps. "What\'s the use of it? You only drive other hot-heads into the enemy\'s ships. I miss faces every day as it is."

"Many are true enough," replied young Burnham. "There\'s Mercer and Troubridge and our messmate, Caleb Carberry. You miss them because they are all sick in hospital."

"Troubridge is dead," said Cecil Stark shortly; "and Matthew Mercer is dying. I saw the doctor this morning. He said \'twas all over with him. He\'s unconscious."

Leverett lifted his ribs in a deep sigh.

"They are out of it. I most envy \'em. There\'s no escape from this cussed bowery except by way of the \'orspital."

None spoke; then upon their gloomy silence a black man burst, in the very extremity of excitement. He was a big, full-blooded negro—a splendid specimen of vigour, manhood and health. Now he waved his arms and rolled his great brown eyes and advanced upon them with a clumsy saltation.

"Waal, now, look at that black imp!" cried Knapps. "Come here, Sam Cuffee! What\'s happened to you? Has anybody left you a fortune, or a pair of wings?"

"Better dan dat, Jimmy Knapps! Good tings for all ob us, please de Lord. Him coming, Sars. Ha, ha, ha! Him coming!"

"Who\'s coming?" asked Leverett. "The Lord? Don\'t you think it, Sam. There\'s no God nowadays ter keep his weather eye lifting on the likes of us."

"\'Tis vain to whine so, David Leverett," said Stark angrily. "I\'m weary of your eternal grumbling. If you chose fighting for your business in life, you should expect hard knocks. You went to be carpenter in a ship of war, and——"

Here a shout from Burnham interrupted the speaker, for Mr. Cuffee had told his great news to the other officers.

"Yes, Sar—honour bright, Sar. Marse Jones, de turnkey, he tell me. Marse Blazey—him coming to put all right dis berry day, so I done run to tell you."

"Then you can call back your words, carpenter," said Commodore Miller. "There\'s a God yet—only He takes His own time—not ours."

"Blazey coming!" cried Knapps. "\'Tis most too good to be true. Some on you gentlemen had best think what to say to him."

As he spoke, Captain Cottrell, Commandant of the War Prison, appeared and advanced with a guard into the midst of the patrol ground. A trumpeter blew a blast to summon the wandering throngs, and when they had crowded in a dense circle round him, the Commandant raised his voice and made a statement from the midst of the bristling bayonets that hemmed him about.

"I have to inform you, gentlemen, that your Agent, Mr. Blazey, from Plymouth, will visit Prison No. 4 at three o\'clock of the afternoon to-day. Here in public he will meet you and hear all your grievances, but there must be no private intercourse."

He departed, and the Americans, with joy upon their faces, raised a cheer—not for Captain Cottrell, but his news. The black men, who were grouped together apart, also lifted a shout of satisfaction.

"One might think that peace was proclaimed rather than that a paid official is merely about to do his duty," said Cecil Stark with bitterness.

But Commodore Miller shook his head.

"Do not even assume so much, my lad. This man—well, a sluggard in duty can never be trusted. If he discharges his task reluctantly, he may also discharge it ill."

Great stir and bustle marked the next few hours. Light and air were let into every dark corner; broken hammocks were patched, and each granite ward was cleansed. Only the prisoners themselves remained unchanged. No power could instantly alter their thin, hungry faces or their disgraceful attire.

There came presently to Cecil Stark his friend and superior officer, the Commodore.

"As one not quite unknown to them, they have called upon me to be spokesman," he said.

"Of course, sir; you\'re the first man amongst us. Every American knows that."

"But I\'ve no gift of words, Stark, and my nerve is not what it was. I declined the task; whereon they invited me to name a speaker likely to address this Blazey with force and judgment. I come to you. I hold it to be your duty. You must not shrink from it."

Cecil Stark was much taken aback by this proposal.

"Think better of it, sir. Who am I to voice so many older and wiser men than myself?"

"I wish you to do so. We must say much in little and hold the Agent\'s attention. Be off now and collect your thoughts and set your ideas in order," said the Commodore. "Look to it that you justify my choice, for I shall bear the blame if you fail."

"\'Tis a very great responsibility, but I\'ll assume it, since you command, Commodore. Now let me meet the leaders."

After a brief conference with the prominent prisoners, Stark vanished and, until the important person named Reuben Blazey arrived at Prince Town, he secluded himself with certain papers and prison orders, that he might prepare his speech.

Then, towards evening, a trumpet announced the arrival of the Agent; the captives drew up in a dense double line, and Mr. Blazey, with his staff and a guard of red-coats, appeared. He was a short, stout man, clad in plum-colour, with a face of generous purple that matched his clothes. His little black eyes shot sharp glances everywhere as he advanced, hat in ............