too, was forbidden. How he spent the night we cannot tell; part
of it, no doubt, in prayer, for that was the habit of his life.

He could not want to die. He was young and strong, just twenty-
one, hardly more than a boy, and life was all before him. He had
friends who loved him; he was engaged to be married; he had every
prospect of success and happiness. But he had deliberately
counted the cost before he undertook the dangerous service, and
the training of all his life, at home, at college, and in the
army, had taught him not only to do and to dare, but, what is
better still, to accept defeat bravely.

The next morning, while the last fatal preparations were being
made, an aide-de-camp of General Howe's, a brave officer of
Engineers who was stationed near the place, asked that the
prisoner be allowed to wait in his tent. "Captain Hale entered,"
he says; "he was calm and bore himself with gentle dignity in the
consciousness of rectitude and high intentions. He asked for
writing materials, which I furnished him; he wrote two letters,
one to his mother, and one to a brother officer."

These letters Cunningham destroyed, saying that "the rebels
should never know they had a man who could die with so much
firmness."

There were few people present at his death. When he reached the
foot of the tree where the sentence was to be executed, he was
asked if he had anything to say, any confession to make. He told
again who he was and why he came, and added quietly, "I only
regret that I have but one life to lose for my country." Then the