Chambers Robert William
Cardigan

CHAPTER XXVII

He hesitated, poised on the threshold, his yellow eyes contracting, dazzled by the candle; then, like lightning, his sword glittered in his hand, but Mount, behind him, tore the limber blade from his grip and flung it ringing at my feet. Now, weaponless and alone, Butler stood confronting us, his blank eyes travelling from one to another, his thin lips twitching in an ever-deepening sneer. Nor did the sneer leave his face when Mount slammed and locked the door behind him, and unsheathed his broad hunting-knife.

"Something is dreadfully wrong, gentlemen," quavered poor Cade Renard; "this is Captain Butler, my daughter's affianced. I pray you follow no ancient quarrel under my roof, gentlemen. I cannot suffer this affront – I cannot permit this difference between gentlemen in my daughter's presence – "

Mount quietly drew the little man aside to the door and led him out, saying tenderly: "All is well, old friend; you have forgotten much in these long days. You will remember soon. Go, dream in the moonlight, Cade. She was ever a friend to us, the moon."

Suddenly Butler turned on Silver Heels, his darkening face distorted.

"You have played the game well!" he whispered, between his teeth.

"What game?" I asked, with deadly calmness. "Pray say what you have to say at once, Mr. Butler."

Again his evil gaze shifted from face to face; there was no mercy in the eyes that met his; his visage grew loose and pallid.

"That she-devil swore to wed me!" he broke out, hoarsely, pointing a shaking finger full at Silver Heels. "She – swore it!" His voice sank to a hiss.

"To save my father from a highwayman's death!" said Silver Heels, deathly white.

She turned to me, quivering. "Michael, I am a thief's daughter. This is what I am come to! – to buy my father's life with my own body – and fling my soul at that man's feet! Now will you wed me?"

A cold fury blinded me so I could scarcely see him. I cocked my rifle and drew my hand across my eyes to clear them.

"This is not your quarrel!" he said, desperately; "this woman is the daughter of Cade Renard, a notorious highwayman known as the Weasel! I doubt that Sir Michael Cardigan – for your uncle is dead, whether you know it or not! – would care to claim kinship in this house!"

He turned like a snake and measured Mount from head to foot.

"Give me my sword!" he said, harshly, "and I will answer for myself against this other thief!" His glaring eyes fell on Foxcroft.

"What the devil are you doing here?" he snarled. "Are you knave or fool, that you stand there listening to this threat on my life? You know that this woman is Renard's child! You have Sir John's papers to prove it! Are you not his attorney, man? Then tell these gentlemen that I speak the truth, and that I will meet them both, singly, and carve it on their bodies lest they forget it!"

"It is too late," I said; "a gentleman's sword can never again be soiled by those hands."

"Ay!" cried Foxcroft, suddenly, "it is too late! You say I have papers to prove the truth? I have; and you shall hear the truth, you cursed scoundrel!"

"She is the Weasel's child!" cried Butler, hoarsely.

"If she were the child of Tom o' Bedlam, she is still betrothed to me! God knows," I said, "whether you be human or demon, and so perhaps you may not burn in hell, but I shall send you thither, with God's help!"

And I laid my hand on his arm, and asked him if he was minded to die quietly in the garden; while Mount, knife at his throat, pushed him towards the door.

"Do you mean it?" he burst out, shuddering. "Am I not to have a chance for life? This is murder, Mr. Cardigan!"

"So dealt you by me at the Cayuga stake," I said.

"Yet – it is murder you do. If my hands are not clean, would you foul your own?"

"So dealt you by me in Queen Street prison," I said, slowly.

"Yet, nevertheless, it is murder. And you know it. This is no court of law, to sit in judgment. Are the Cardigans the public hangmen?"

"Give him his sword!" I cried, passionately. "I cannot breathe while he draws breath! Give him his sword, or I will slay him with naked hands!"

"No!" roared Foxcroft, hurling me back.

Butler scowled at the lawyer; Foxcroft scowled at him, and placed his heavy shoe on the fallen sword. Then he suddenly stooped, seized the gilded hilt, and snapped the blade in two, casting the fragments from him in contempt.

"The sword of a scoundrel," he said; "the sword of a petty malefactor – a pitiful forger – "

"Liar!" shrieked Butler, springing at him. Mount flung the maddened man into a chair, where he lay, white and panting, staring at Foxcroft, who now stood by the table, coolly examining a packet of documents.

"It is all here," he said – "the story of two cheap dabblers in petty crime – Sir John Johnson and Mr. Walter Butler – how they did conspire to steal from Miss Warren her wealth, her fair fame, and the very name God gave her. A shameful story, gentlemen, but true on the word of an honourable man."

"Lies!" muttered Butler, between ashen lips. His cheeks became loose and horrible; his lips shrivelled up above his teeth. Foxcroft turned to me, purple with passion.

"Sir William Johnson, your honourable kinsman, left Miss Warren property in his will. Sir John found, in the same box which held the will, a packet of documents and letters addressed to Sir William, apparently proving that Miss Warren was the child of a certain lady who had left her husband to follow the fortunes of Captain Warren – her child by her own husband, Cade Renard, a gentleman of Cambridge."

"The Weasel!" burst out Jack Mount.

"But she is not, sir!" cried Foxcroft, turning on Mount. "She is Captain Warren's own child; I journeyed to England and proved it; I have papers here in my pocket to prove it!" he said, slapping the flaps of his brass-buttoned coat. "It was a lie from beginning to end; the letters supposed to have been written to Sir William by Sir Peter Warren were forged; the documents supposed to have been unearthed from the flooring in the captain's cabin of his Majesty's ship Leda were forged. I can prove it! I can prove that Walter Butler was the forger! I can prove that Sir John Johnson knew it! And to that end Sir John and Captain Butler conspired to make her believe herself to be the child of a half-crazed forest-runner who had been besetting Sir John with his mad importunities, calling himself Cade Renard, and vowing that Miss Warren was his own child!"

He glared at Butler; the wretched man's lips moved to form the word, "Lies!" but no sound came. Then Foxcroft turned to me.

"In my presence these three men broke the news to her; they hoodwinked me, too. By God, sir, I had never suspected villany had not that contemptible fool, Sir John, attempted to bribe silence, should anything ever occur to cast doubt on the relationship betwixt this fellow Renard and Miss Warren!"

The lawyer paused, grinding his teeth in rage.

"I accepted the bribe! I did, gentlemen! I did it to quiet suspicion. Sir John believes me to be his creature. But I set out to follow the matter to the bitter end, and I have done it! It's a falsehood from A to Zed! I shall have the pleasure of flinging Sir John's bribe into his face!"

He laid his hand on my arm, speaking very gently and gravely.

"Mr. Cardigan, Miss Warren is the truest, bravest, sweetest woman I have ever known. She received the news of her dreadful position as a gallant soldier receives the fire of the enemy. When it was made hopelessly clear to her that this lunatic Renard was her father, and that she was not a Warren, not an heiress, that she must now give up all thought of the family on which she had so long imposed – and give up all pretensions to you, sir – she acquiesced with a dignity that might have become a princess of the blood, sir! No whining there, Mr. Cardigan! Not a whimper, sir; not a reproach, not a tear. Her first thought was of pity for her father – this little, withered lunatic, who sat there devouring her with his eyes of a sick hound. She went to him before us all; she took his hand – his hard, little claw – and kissed it. By God, gentlemen, blood tells!"

After a long silence I repeated, "Blood tells."

Mount, head in his hands, was weeping.

"Then came Butler, the forger," said Foxcroft, pointing at him. "And when he found that, after all, Miss Warren honoured herself too highly to seek a rehabilitation through his name, he came here and threatened this poor old man's life – threatened to denounce him as a thief, and have him hung at a cross-roads, unless she gave herself to him! Then – then she consented."

Butler was sitting forward in his chair, his bloodless face supported between his slim fingers, his eyes on vacancy. He did not seem to hear the words that branded him; he did not appear to see us as we drew closer around him.

"In the orchard," muttered Mount; "we can hang him with his own bridle."

We paused for an instant, gazing silently at the doomed man. Then Mount touched him on the shoulder.

At the voiceless summons he looked up at us as though stunned.

"You must hang," said Mount, gravely.

"Not that! No!" I stammered; "I can't do it! Give him a sword – give him something to fight with! Jack – I can't do it. I am not made that way!"

There was a touch on my arm; Silver Heels stood beside me.

"Let them deal with him," she murmured, "you cannot fight with him; there is no honour in him."

"No! – no honour in him!" I repeated.

He had risen, and now stood, staring vacantly at me.

"Damnation!" cried Mount, "are you going to let him loose on the world again?"

"I cannot slay him," I said.

"But a rope can!" said Mount.

"Do you then draw it," I replied, "and never rail more at the hangman!"

After a moment I unlocked and opened the door. As in a trance, Butler passed out into the moonlight; Mount stole close behind him, and I saw his broad knife glimmer as he followed.

"Let him go," I said, wearily. "I choke with all this foul intrigue. Is there no work to do, Jack, save the sheriff's? Faugh! Let him go!"

Butler slowly set foot to stirrup; Mount snatched the pistol from the saddle-holster with a savage sneer.

"No, no," he said. "Trust a scoundrel if you will, lad, but draw his fangs first. Oh, Lord above! – but I hate to let him go! Shall I? I'll give him a hundred yards before I fire! And I'll not aim at that! Shall I?"

If Butler heard him he made no sign. He turned in his saddle and looked at Silver Heels.

Should I let him loose on the world once more? God knows I am no prophet, nor pretend to see behind the veil; yet, as I stood there, looking on Walter Butler, I thought the haze that the moon spun in the garden grew red like that fearsome light which tinges the smoke of burning houses, and I remembered that dream I had of him, so long ago, when I saw him in the forest, with blood on him, and fresh scalps at his belt – and the scalps were not of the red men.

Should I, who had him in my power, and could now forever render the demon in him powerless – should I let him go free into the world, or send him forever to the dreadful abode of lost souls?

War was at hand. War would come at dawn when the Grenadiers marched into Concord town. To slay him, then, would be no murder. But now?

Mount, watching me steadily, raised his rifle.

"No," I said.

What was I to do? There was no prison to hale him to; the jails o' Boston lodged no Tories. Justice? There was no justice save that mockery at Province House. Law? Gage was the law – Gage, the friend of this man. What was I to do? Once again Mount raised his rifle.

"No," I said.

So passed Walter Butler from among us, riding slowly out into the shadowy world, under the calm moon. God witness that I conducted as my honour urged, not as my hot blood desired – and He shall deal with me one day, face to face, that I let loose this man on the world, yet did not dream of the hell he should make of Tryon County ere his red soul was fled again to the hell that hatched it!

So rode forth mine enemy, Walter Butler, invulnerable for me in his armour of dishonour, unpunished for the woe that he had wrought, unmarked by justice which the dawn had not yet roused from her long sleep in chains.

Again Mount raised his rifle.

"No," I said.

A little breeze began stirring in the moonlit orchard; our horses tossed their heads and stamped; then silence fell.

After a long while the voice of Mount recalled me to myself; he had drawn poor Renard to a seat on the rotting steps of the porch.

"Now do you know me, Cade?" asked Mount, again and again.

The Weasel folded his withered hands in his lap and looked up, solemnly.

"Cade? Cade, old friend?" persisted Mount, piteously, drawing his great arm about the Weasel's stooping shoulders.

The Weasel's solemn eyes met his in silence.

Mount forced a cheerful laugh that rang false in the darkness.

"What! Forget the highway, Cade? The King's highway, old friend? The moon at the cross-roads? Eh? You remember? Say you remember, Cade."

The blank eyes of the Weasel were fixed on Mount.

"The forest? Eh, Cade? Ho! – lad! The rank smell o' the moss, and the stench of rotting logs? The quiet in the woods, the hermit-bird piping in the pines? Say you remember, old friend!" he begged; "tell me you remember! Ho! lad, have you forgot the tune the war-arrow sings?"

And he made a long-drawn, whispering whimper with his lips.

In pantomime he crouched and pointed; the Weasel's mild eyes turned.

"The Iroquois!" whispered Mount, anxiously. "They wear O-Kwen-cha! – red paint! Hark to the war-drums! Do you not hear them chanting:

 
"Ha-wa-sa-say!
Ha-wa-sa-say!"
 

The Weasel's eyes grew troubled; he looked up at Mount trustfully, like a child who refuses to be frightened.

"I hear Che-ten-ha, the mouse; he gnaws, gnaws, gnaws."

"No, it is the Iroquois!" urged Mount. "You have fought them, Cade; you remember? Say that you remember!"

"I – I have fought the Iroquois," repeated the Weasel, passing his hand over his brow; "but it was years ago – years ago – too long ago to remember – "

"No, no!" cried Mount, "it was but yesterday, old friend – yesterday! And who went with you on the burnt trail, Cade? Who went with you by night and by day, by starlight and by sun, eating when you ate, starving when you starved, drinking deep when you drank, thirsting when you thirsted? It was I, Cade!" cried Mount, eagerly; "I!"

"It was Tah-hoon-to-whe, the night-hawk," murmured the little man.

"It was I, Jack Mount!" repeated the forest-runner, in a loud voice. "Hark! The Iroquois drums! The game's afoot, Cade! Rouse up, old friend! The trail is free!"

But the Weasel only stared at him with his solemn, aged eyes, and clasped his trembling hands in his lap.

Mount stood still for a long while. Slowly his eager head sank, his arms fell, hopelessly. Then, with a gulping sob, he sank down beside his ancient comrade, and hid his head in his huge hands.

The Weasel looked at him with sorrowful eyes; then rose, and came slowly towards Silver Heels.

"They say you are not my daughter," he said, taking Silver Heels's hands from mine. "They tell me I have forgotten many things – that you are not my little girl. But – we know better, my child."

He bent and kissed her hands. His hair was white as frost.

"We know better, child," he murmured. "You shall tell me all they say – for I cannot understand – and we will smile to remember it all, in the long summer evenings – will we not, my child?"

"Yes," said Silver Heels, faintly.

"There is much, sir, that I forget in these days," he said, turning gravely towards me – "much that I cannot recall. Age comes to us all with God's mercy, sir. Pray you forgive if I lack in aught of courtesy to my guests. There are many people who stay with us – and I cannot remember all names of new and welcome guests – believe me, most welcome. I think your name is Captain Butler?"

"Sir Michael Cardigan," whispered Silver Heels.

"And welcome, always welcome to us here in Cambridge Hall," murmured the old man, staring vacantly about him.

Foxcroft, who had gone to the shabby barn, came back and whispered that there were no horses there, and no vehicle of any description; that we had best make ready for a journey to Albany immediately, and abandon the house and its scant furnishings to the mercy of chance.

I left it to him and to Jack Mount to persuade poor Renard that a journey was necessary that very night; and to them also I left the care of providing for us as best they might, saying that I had no money until I could reach Albany, and that my horse Warlock was to carry Miss Warren.

When Mount had drawn poor Cade away, and when Foxcroft began rummaging the great house for what necessaries and provisions it might contain, Silver Heels took me by the hand and led me up the creaking old stairs and across the gallery to her own chamber. The moonlight flooded the room as we entered, making its every corner sparkle.

Save for the great four-posted bed with its heavy canopy, there was in the room nothing but a pine table and a jug and basin.

"So poor am I," she whispered, close beside my face.

"Is this all?" I asked.

"All save the clothes on my body, Michael."

"Silver Heels! Silver Heels!" I said, sorrowfully, holding her by the hands and never moving my eyes from her tender eyes. And we looked and looked, nor gazed our fill, and the light of her sweet presence was like moonlight which swam in the silvery room, bathing me to the soul of me with deep content.

"All these piteous days!" she said, slowly.

"Ay – all of them! And each hour a year, and each nightfall a closing century. Silver Heels! Silver Heels! You are unchanged, dear heart!"

"Thin to my bones, and very, very old – like you, Michael."

"We have young souls."

"Yes, Michael. We are young in all save sorrow."

"And you are so tall, Silver Heels – "

"Span my waist!"

"My hand would span it. Ah! Your head comes not above my chin for all your willow growth!"

"Your hands are rough, Sir Michael."

"Your hands are satin, sweet."

"Yet I wash my kerchief and my shifts in suds."

How the moon glowed and glowed on her.

"You grow in beauty, Silver Heels," I said.

"When you are with me I do truly feel beauty growing in me, Michael."

We sat down together on the great bed's edge, her face against mine, and looked out at the faint stars which the glory of the moon had not yet drowned in light.

Far in the night a cock crowed in the false dawn.

"You have suffered, sweet?" I whispered.

"Ay. And you?"

"Much," I replied.

After a long while she spoke.

"You have never wavered – not once – not for one moment?"

"Once."

In a faint whisper, "When?"

"On the road from Albany, dear heart."

"You rode in company?"

"Not of my choice."

"Who?"

"Do not ask."

"Who?"

"I cannot tell – "

"Who?"

"In honour."

"You wavered?"

"There was no danger when I thought of you."

She raised her face; her mouth touched mine, then clung to it, and I breathed the sweetest breath a maid e'er drew, and all my soul grew dim and warm and faint, with her arms now around my neck, now clinging to my shoulders, and her face like a blossom crushed to mine.

Trembling in limb and body she stood up, brushing her gray eyes awake with slender fingers.

"Ah, what happiness, what happiness!" she whispered. "I am all a-quiver, and I burn to the soul of me. What strange, sweet mischief is there in your lips, Michael? Nay – do not touch me – dear, dear lad; not now – not yet."

She leaned from the open casement; in the intense stillness a voice broke out from below:

"Ready, Cardigan! The horses wait at the barn!"

As she had no cloak I wrapped her in mine, and, passing my arm around her, led her down to the porch and out across the orchard to the barn where Renard sat, mounted on his old comrade's horse.

Warlock came to my call; he nosed the little hand that Silver Heels held out, and laid his head close to hers.

"Bear her safely, Warlock!" I muttered, huskily, and lifted her to the saddle, bidding Foxcroft mount his own horse, as I would walk beside Miss Warren.

So we started, Foxcroft in the van, then the Weasel, with Mount afoot, leading the horse, then Silver Heels in her saddle, with one hand on my shoulder as I walked at her side, rifle trailed.

"There is a road which swings north," said Foxcroft. "We must circle Lexington."

"There is a road yonder," called out Mount.

Foxcroft hesitated.

"I think it leads to Roxbury," he said; "I cannot tell if it be the road."

"Is it the Roxbury Road, Cade?" asked Mount, cheerfully.

"Doubtless, doubtless," replied the Weasel, vacantly, staring at Silver Heels.

"He does not remember," whispered Silver Heels.

"Try it," said Mount; "I doubt not but that it swings far north o' Lexington. If this were the forest 'twixt Saint Sacrement and Pitt I'd vouch for us all, but the smell o' the town has dulled and blunted my nose, and I see no longer like a tabby in a dark pantry."

He moved into the road, following Foxcroft, and leading the horse on which Cade Renard was mounted. I came last with Silver Heels.

The moon was well on her journey towards the dark world's edge ere we came to a cross-roads; but the four finger-posts were missing, and we found ourselves no wiser than before. Foxcroft voiced his misgivings that we were on the Lexington Road after all, and not on the road to Roxbury, as we should surely have crossed the Concord Road ere this.

And he was right, for in a few moments we came in full view of the Lexington Meeting-house, with the Concord Road running into our road on the left and "Buckman's Tavern" on the right, all ablaze with candles set in every window, and a great stable lanthorn shining in the centre of the road.

"It is past three in the morning," said Foxcroft, looking at his watch. "The British should have been here ere this if they were coming at all."

Mount threw his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, and, tossing his horse's bridle to Foxcroft, walked towards "Buckman's Tavern" where, in the lanthorn light, a throng of men were standing.

I heard him greet them with a hearty "God save our country"; then he disappeared in the crowd.

The night had turned chilly; I buttoned my riding-coat across Silver Heels's throat and covered her head with the cape, tying it under her chin like a hood.

Presently Mount came striding back, rifle on shoulder, followed by an hostler with a stable light.

"The militia have been yonder under arms since midnight," he said. "A messenger rode in ten minutes since with news that the road was clear and no British coming. We can get a post-chaise here" – he nodded towards the hostler who stood swinging his lamp in one hand and his firelock in t'other.

"I guess the redcoats ain't a-coming, gentlemen," said the hostler, with a grin.

"Then we had best bait at the tavern," said Foxcroft, quickly; and he led the way, riding beside the Weasel, who seemed utterly indifferent to his surroundings.

As we threaded our path through the crowd of men and boys I noticed that all were armed with rifles or old-time firelocks, and some even with ancient blunderbusses and bell-muzzled matchlocks. They appeared to be a respectable company, mostly honest yokels from the village, clad in plain homespun. A few wore the militia uniform; one or two officers were dressed in the full uniform of the Third Suffolk Regiment. They eyed us curiously as we passed through their straggling ranks; one called out: "The forest-runners are with us! Hurrah!" But, for the most part, they regarded us quietly, readily making way for me as I came up, leading Warlock with Silver Heels in the saddle, cloaked to the eyes.

A servant, wearing a pistol in his belt, brought us bread and hot stirabout in a great blue bowl. This dry fare we washed with ale, Silver Heels tasting a glass of Madeira to warm her chilled body.

It was a silent, thoughtful repast. Mount, sitting close beside the Weasel, urged the old man to eat, and he did, mechanically, with dazed eyes fixed on space.

One thing I began to notice: he no longer watched Silver Heels with that humble, devoted, hungering mien of a guardian hound; he scarcely appeared to be aware of her presence at all. Once only he spoke, asking what had become of his rifle; and Mount, eager and hopeful, brought his own rifle to the stricken man. But the Weasel had already forgotten what he had asked for, and he glanced at the weapon listlessly, his hands folded before him on the cloth.

Though her life had nigh been wrecked forever by this poor madman, Silver Heels, sitting at his elbow, watched over him with a serious tenderness and pity, doing for him those little offices which do become the children of the aged and infirm, and which, God grant, our children shall fulfil towards us. And so I saw her with the salt-box, savouring his stirabout so that it should be seasoned to his liking, and, with the cone of sugar, chip such morsels with her knife as he might mumble when he chose.

Presently Foxcroft went to the stables to see that our post-chaise was well provisioned for the journey, and Mount led Renard away to watch the feed-bags filled for our horses' provender.

Silver Heels, still wrapped in my riding-cloak, laid her slim hand on my arm, and we walked together to the tavern porch.

The road from Boston divides in front of the Meeting-house, forming two sides of a grassy triangle, on the base of which stands the Meeting-house, facing down the Boston Road. Near this village green a few armed men still lingered in the faint light of dawn, conversing in low voices, and glancing often down the deserted Boston Road.

A score of men sat around us on the damp tavern steps, listlessly balancing their rifles between their knees, some smoking wooden pipes, some dozing, some drinking early milk from a bucket brought by a small, freckled lad who wore neither hat nor shoes.

"Do you desire some fresh milk, lady?" he asked, gazing solemnly up at Silver Heels.

She smiled faintly, took the proffered dipper, and drank a little.

"No pay, lady," he said, as I drew out some coins which Foxcroft had loaned me; "the redcoats are comin', and we need to for-ti-fy the in-ner man – and the in-ner lady," he added, politely.

A soldier looked up and laughed.

"That's what the little rascal heard Captain Parker say," he drawled, much amused, while the barefoot Ganymede withdrew, blushing and embarrassed, to act as cup-bearer to others who had beckoned him.

"We've got a hundred an' thirty militia here already," volunteered a drummer-boy who lolled on the porch, fondling his wet drum; "but Captain Parker, he let 'em go into the houses around the green because he guesses the redcoats ain't a-comin', but I'm to stay here an' drum like the devil if the redcoats come."

"An' I'm to fife if they come!" added another boy, stoutly.

I glanced down at the big, painted drum, all beaded with dew, and I read "Louisburg" written in white letters on the hoops.

"We have some old Louisburg soldiers here," said the urchin, proudly. "The redcoats say that we be all cowards, but I guess we have fit battles for 'em long enough."

"You are over-young to fight in war," said Silver Heels, gently.

"No, ma'am, we ain't!" they retorted, in a breath. "We'll give 'em 'Yankee Doodle' this time, my lady!"

"'Yankee Doodle,'" repeated Silver Heels, mystified.

"A foolish song the British play in Boston to plague us," I explained.

Presently Silver Heels touched my arm. "See yonder – look at that man, down there in the road! See him running now, Michael!"

I turned and looked down the Boston Road; the little barelegged drummer stood up.

Faintly came the far cry through the misty chill: "The British are coming! The British are coming!"

The next instant the wet, stringy drum banged and buzzed on the tavern porch, drowning all other sounds in our ears; a score of men stumbled to their feet, rifles in hand; the little fifer blew a whistling call, then ran out into the road.

At that same moment our post-chaise lumbered around the corner of the tavern yard and drew up before us, Mount acting as post-boy, and Foxcroft and the Weasel riding together in the rear.

Mount apprehended the situation at a glance; he motioned me to place Silver Heels in the chaise, which I did, with my eyes still fixed on the foggy Boston Road.

"Is it a false alarm?" inquired Foxcroft, anxiously, as a few of the militia came running past our chaise. "Ho! Harrington! Hey! Bob Monroe! Is it true they are coming, lads?"

Harrington and Monroe, whom I had met in Boston at the "Wild Goose," waved their arms to us, and called out that it was doubtless true.

"Which way?" cried Foxcroft, standing up in his stirrups.

But the militia and Minute Men ran out without answering, and joined the line which was slowly forming on the green, while the old Louisburg drum rolled, vibrating sonorously, and the fife's shrill treble pierced the air.

There was a uniformed officer in front of the ragged line, shouting orders, gesticulating, pushing men into place; some sidled nearer to their comrades as though for shelter, many craned their necks like alarmed turkeys, a few huddled into groups, charging and priming their pieces – some threescore yokels in all, though others were running from the houses and joining the single rank, adding to the disorder and confusion. And all the while the old Louisburg drum thundered the assembly.

"Cardigan, which way are they coming?" cried Foxcroft, still standing up in his stirrups. "They say there are redcoats behind us and more in front of us!"

"Do those ragged rascals mean to face a British army?" exclaimed Mount, reining in his horse, which had begun to rear at the noise of the drum.

"Turn your horses, Jack!" I said, holding Warlock by the head; "turn back towards Concord!"

"There's redcoats on the Concord Road!" cried a woman, running out of a house close by. I saw her hurry across to the village green, carrying a sack of home-moulded bullets.

Jonathan Harrington caught her arm, took the bullet-pouch, kissed her; then she hastened back to the little house and stood at the window, peering out with white face pressed to the dark glass.

I flung myself astride Warlock, wheeled the restless horse, and ranged up alongside Mount.