the man who pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold was not, after all, of so very terrible an aspect, at least so clotilde sought to reassure herself. his high boots were caked with mud and snow and his big grey cloak was gathered close about him. his voice, when he addressed her was gruff and heavy, although it appeared to be with an effort and in spite of breathless impatience that he managed to speak quietly.
“can you tell me, little mistress,” he said, “where a man named andrew shadwell bides?”
“why, yes,” replied clotilde readily, much relieved by his peaceable tone, “he lives in the next—”
she stopped abruptly. the man had chanced to lift his arm, showing, under his cloak, a braided cuff and a strip of scarlet sleeve. a british soldier—and here!
“well?” he demanded sharply as she paused. “where does he dwell?”
“i will not tell you,” returned clotilde with spirit. “i have no information for a soldier of king george.”
the man stepped forward with an angry exclamation, but was interrupted by the entry of one of his comrades. this second visitor she recognised at once as the governor’s messenger who had sat by stephen sheffield’s fire and talked to her of the coming of the war. he, for the moment, seemed to have no recollection of their previous meeting.
“well, merton,” questioned the newcomer, “have you any information? the captain says that if you can find out nothing, you are to come on at once, since delay is worse than ignorance of the road. that rascal of a half-breed pedlar is here without; he insists that we can get news at this cottage, although he fears, for some reason, to come in himself.”
“i could get information enough if only this obstinate maid would speak,” replied the other. “it remains but to be seen how quickly i can persuade her.”
he seized clotilde roughly by the arm and, dropping all pretence of friendliness, cried in a voice that struck terror to her heart:
“now, young mistress, will you tell or shall i make you?”
with a convulsive effort, clotilde jerked herself free.
“no!” she cried, undaunted.
“come,” remonstrated merton’s companion, “do the girl no harm; it is no part of a soldier’s duty to bully a woman. wait, i will bring the captain to question her.”
clotilde, with a sinking heart, saw him go out, but she felt no lessening of her determination. she began to see that these men were members of a british force, come at andrew shadwell’s call to guard the tories out of the country. suppose they should meet that little company of colonial soldiers, what could result but utter disaster for the americans? they were encamped so near, they were so few in number, the situation looked very desperate to her whirling mind. there was a chance that she might slip out and run through the snow to warn them. as the thought came to her she made an involuntary movement toward the back door of the cottage. but the watchful merton’s sharp little eyes divined her purpose quickly.
“think not to befool a british soldier so easily as that,” he mocked as, with one stride, he stepped between her and the door. he tried the lock, found it already fastened and grinned with satisfaction as he withdrew the key. “we will have no slipping out in that direction,” he said firmly. “now tell me where dwells andrew shadwell, and his gang of loyalists, as they call themselves. is it in the next house, or street, or town? come, speak up, i say.”
as she stood, her hand clutching the back of the big chair to steady herself, clotilde wondered if he could see how she was trembling. she was scarcely able to control her voice but she managed, by a mighty effort to keep it from shaking as she answered:
“i will tell you nothing.”
she swallowed chokily with a dry throat, but she turned her head away and gazed indifferently into the fire. her action put the final touch to merton’s fury.
“we will see as to that!” he said.
“here, what is this?” cried a new voice suddenly at the door.
the young officer who entered was dark-cloaked like the others, but trimmer, straighter and of a more commanding presence. clotilde gave him one startled look and then glanced, almost without knowing it, up at the portrait of master simon that still hung above the mantel. how like the officer’s eyes were to those in the picture and to stephen sheffield’s. she remembered miles’ saying of:
“there is no blue like sheffield blue!”
this, then, was the man who had saved her comrade in boston, the same that she had seen upon that early morning at the crossroads, riding past like whirlwind on his great, grey horse.
“what are you doing with this maid, merton?” asked the officer sternly. “stand back from her.”
the soldier growled something between his teeth and sulkily obeyed.
“we would but know where to seek andrew shadwell,” went on the captain courteously to clotilde. “surely there is no harm in telling us that!”
she stared at him stonily and deigned to make no answer. she was attempting to feel anger at one who could look so much like her dear master sheffield and yet could draw his sword in the cause against liberty. but it was hard to resist the appeal of those earnest, friendly eyes.
“you see,” commented merton, “the maid is just as stubborn as are all of these backwoods folk that call themselves patriots. you will get nothing from her by gentleness.”
through the door, that had been left open, came a low, whining voice speaking in rapid french, and round the edge of the doorpost peered the dark face of the half-breed pedlar.
“there are but women here,” he said, “an old dame who has a tongue like a flail and this young mademoiselle. it is the best place to learn, not only the road to m’sieur shadwell’s, which i have missed in this wilderness of snow, but also where lies that handful of rebel troops that we have heard are encamped in the neighbourhood. there are red-coated men enough here to take them twice over.”
the captain, stepping to the threshold, answered the man in a low voice and in his own tongue.
“your task was to guide this expedition to the loyalist headquarters, and not to lose your bearings at the first turning. yet, as i have been once over the road myself, perhaps i can find the way again. what i wished most to have you discover was the place of encampment of the american troops.”
the french pedlar interrupted quickly with some words that she was not able to hear, although she could guess their purport from the officer’s answer.
“you need not fear so greatly for the safety of your precious skin. the americans are so few that they can only harm us if they cut all our return to our vessel in the harbour; could we but have the chance of surprising them, they would be quite helpless in the face of our numbers. yet i should rather leave them unmolested and accomplish our errand as quietly as possible. i do not care to risk good lives in the rescue of a rascal like your master, andrew shadwell.”
he turned back into the room and spoke in english to the two soldiers.
“we may as well go on,” he said, with a visible effort to make it appear that their errand was only a casual one. “we owe this maid an apology for troubling her with questions that are of no great moment. you must pardon us, my mistress.”
“i could find out all we want to know,” growled merton, “if you would but leave me alone with her for a little. or,” he added hopefully, “there may be some one else here to ask.”
while the captain was talking with the pedlar, the other soldier had tramped up the narrow stairs that led from this room to those overhead, and was now coming down again after having searched the tiny sleeping quarters above.
“there is no one else in the house,” he announced. “we may as well cease to frighten the young mistress and go upon our way.”
they were all three moving toward the door, when the pedlar, who was still peeping furtively into the room, cried to them to stop.
“wait,” he exclaimed, in french. “this young mademoiselle cannot be left here to run with the news of our coming and alarm the town. monsieur, the captain, will pardon me if i say that it would be wrong. i saw her face change a moment ago, at the last words we spoke together and it is my belief that she heard and understood all you said. if she did, then can she betray us the moment our backs are turned. ah, look, look at her eyes, she is pretending ignorance but cannot hide that she understands.”
in spite of herself, the colour rose in clotilde’s cheeks. she was not actress enough to conceal her excitement over what she had heard. oh, for a chance to run through the wood and give warning to the american soldiers!
“is this true?” cried the officer. “have you indeed understood all that we have said?”
“ah, i remember now,” exclaimed merton’s comrade suddenly. “i could not recollect where i had seen the little maid before, but i mind me now that it was at the great house over yonder where she and an old woman talked together in french and told me that they were both acadians. of course she understood!”
the brows of the young officer were knit in troubled perplexity.
“is it true that you are french?” he asked.
“yes,” answered clotilde, who saw no use in further attempt at concealment; “yes, i am an acadian and understand the french tongue as readily as english.”
“that is a misfortune for both of us,” he returned gravely, “for how, then, if you know our plan and our errand, can i leave you to go free? i was a fool to speak so openly, but you are the first i have yet seen in the colonies whose education included french. tell, me, will you, as a prisoner of war, give me your parole not to act against us, not to warn the people of our being here? i am certain that i can trust you if you will but give me your word.”
clotilde regarded him with unmelting hostility.
“i will give you no such promise,” she said steadily, “and i will also do my utmost to aid my cause against yours.”
her tone was so final that there seemed little use in further argument.
“very well,” said the captain, “then we must leave you here, a prisoner. you have the key to that further door, merton? give it to me, and go out to tell the men to march on.”
the french pedlar slipped away into the darkness, the two soldiers went out and closed the door, but the captain did not follow immediately. he was bringing fresh wood for the fire from the cupboard in the corner and was measuring the candles on the mantel shelf to see how long they had to burn. it was plain that he had no liking for his duty as jailer and was anxious that his prisoner should not suffer.
“these should last until morning,” he said when he had examined the candles, “and by that time we will be far away and people from the next house will surely come to find you. will they not?” he repeated when she failed to answer.
his face was so full of unhappy anxiety that, angry and frightened as she was, clotilde could not refuse to give him a little comfort.
“yes, i think they will,” she said stiffly and relapsed once more into silence.
he piled high the logs and faggots on the hearth so that the fire blazed up into abundant light and warmth. she could not help noticing what a really fine face he had as it showed so clearly in the red glow when he stooped to blow the bellows. he looked about to see if there was aught else that he could do for her comfort and seemed disappointed to find there was nothing. for clotilde, suddenly remembering the puritan weaver who had bound his enemy to the armchair and then sat singing at the loom the whole night through, had decided that his example was a worthy one and had climbed up to the bench again and sat throwing her shuttle and singing her song as though the young officer were a hundred miles away. she seemed not to see him as he tried the back door, examined the barred windows and finally, taking up his cloak, turned to go. she did not even look round, although she knew that he hesitated, and then that he paused with his hand on the latch to speak again.
“i am so sorry, little mademoiselle,” he said simply.
she made no answer, nor even ceased her singing, but flung the shuttle swiftly as he opened the door and went out into the rising storm. quick as she was, the sound of her swinging heddle did not come in time to drown the grating noise of the key as it turned in the lock.
for some moments after he was gone she tried to work steadily, then suddenly dropped her shuttle in a tangle of threads, leaned her head against the heavy frame of the loom and burst into bitter tears. she heard as she sat there, the sound of feet tramping past on the creaking snow, a dozen, a score, fifty, a hundred perhaps or many more. the sound came back to her on the gusts of the rising wind. on this wild night the expedition had a good chance of skirting hopewell unnoticed and accomplishing its errand undisturbed.
she sat there sobbing for some time, first weeping wildly then wearily and in despair. presently she slipped down from the bench, tried both the doors and the windows and at last, carrying one of the candles, climbed the stairs to see if escape were possible through one of the upper windows. it was as she had feared however, the heavy wooden shutters had been nailed in place when the sleeping rooms had been abandoned, and no effort of hers could force them open. she went down again, opened one of the windows that looked toward the great house and tried to call for help. the roaring wind swept the words from her lips so quickly that she scarce could hear the cry herself. she could not even see the other house, for every light in it had long since been put out. there was no hope that any one there would miss her before morning, for only jason knew of her not being at home and he, she was well aware, would sleep until midday unless forcibly awakened. she turned back to begin her weaving again, but found herself suddenly too worn out for further labour; instead she crept into the big chair by the fire and sat there, limp and weary, her hands lying idle in her lap.
she watched long the dancing firelight as it flickered back and forth on the low heavy-beamed ceiling. one of the candles sputtered and went out, but the other burned steady in its copper candlestick although its light seemed suddenly to have become very feeble and tiny in the midst of all those moving shadows. the ever rising wind roared down the chimney and made the faggots flare up, break apart and fall quickly into glowing coals. the white birch log, however, burned faithfully and cast a pleasant warmth over her as she sat in the big chair.
she was thinking of the soldiers marching away into the storm; she wondered if they would accomplish their errand safely; she hoped they would—she hoped they would not. she thought of the young captain, of his bravery when he had escaped alone after all his comrades had surrendered, of his kindness to miles, of the gentleness of his voice when he said, “i am so sorry, little mademoiselle.” her heart burned with anger when she thought of his leaving her in such a plight, it melted again at the remembrance of how like he was to stephen and master simon. one moment she wished he might be attacked and taken by the american troops, the next she pictured him lying somewhere on the snowy road, wounded and helpless, and she shivered at the thought.
the fire burned low at last and the room grew very cold. she wrapped her cloak about her and tried walking up and down the room to keep warm, but found herself so weary that she was forced to sit in the chair again, half frozen as she was. the last candle dwindled down into its candlestick, flared high once, then glimmered and went out. the room was in darkness save for two vague grey blots that showed where the windows were. the wind that had proved the friend of the english soldiers and that had dealt so treacherously with her by burning out her fire, had now dropped and all was so still that she could hear the creaking of the branches of the trees outside and the soft pat-pat against the window of the still falling snow.
she must have dozed at last, stiff and uncomfortable as she was, for it was a long time later that she started suddenly wide awake. she saw then that daylight had come upon her unawares, that the windows showed now the wide, white fields outside, and that all the strange shadowy shapes about the dusky room were beginning to show familiar forms of table, spinning-wheel and loom. it must have been the sound of footsteps on the doorstone that aroused her, for even as she opened her eyes she saw that the door was opening and some one was coming in. dazed, bewildered by her sudden waking, scarcely knowing where she was, she sat staring at the dark figure that strode across to her and leaned over the great chair.
“little mademoiselle,” said the captain’s voice, “is it true that you are still here and safe?”
“you—you came back!” she gasped up at him in uncomprehending astonishment. “was there a battle? did you find our soldiers?”
“there has been no fighting,” he answered cheerfully, as he fumbled with stiff fingers, trying to lift the cloak that had slipped from her shoulders. “we did not find your fellow-patriots, nor did they find us, so we were well enough content. the storm stood us in good stead, for all the good people of your village and the next were sleeping so soundly, with doors and windows barred and feather beds pulled over their heads, that no one heard us go by and we brought away andrew shadwell and his friends with never a living soul to say us nay.”
“but where have your soldiers gone?” she asked still bewildered, for there was no sound outside and she could see through the window that the fields and road were empty.
“they are embarking at the cove, five miles from here, where lies the ship that is to carry them safely away, now that our errand is safely done. it was a most unwelcome one and fell to my lot only because i had been through this countryside before. and when all was over i could no longer bear the thought of a brave little maid sitting here all alone in the dark and cold, so i came back—that is all. i will see that you come safely to your house and then go back to join my men.”
he helped her to her feet, but she could hardly stand, so still and benumbed was she and shivering so from head to foot. he put her cloak about her, and then his own great heavy one whose warm folds felt welcome indeed around her shaking shoulders. he opened the door and they came out together into the still, white cold of the winter morning. across the field toward the big house the line of the deeply-trodden path still showed under the drifted snow. clotilde regarded it with dismay.
“i did not remember that it was so far!” she cried involuntarily. there was almost a sob in her voice as, weak and aching, she thought of toiling that long way through the snow.
“poor, brave little mistress, is it too much for you at last?” said the captain. “since you are very small and i am very big, there is a simple and speedy way for you to cross the field.”
he took her up in his arms and stepped off the doorstep into a deep white drift.
far over toward the highroad, the captain’s grey horse was tied to a branch of the hedge. in the silence clotilde could hear him pawing the snow and, a moment later, raise his voice in a clear, shrill whinny.
“what can ail him?” the captain wondered aloud, but clotilde, raising her head from the folds of the muffling cloak, guessed the reason at once.
“he hears horses in the lane above,” she said. “hark! can you not hear them coming? oh, put me down, put me down, you are not safe here, that scarlet coat of yours can be seen a mile away!”
without his cloak, the officer was indeed a distinct and unmistakable mark against the white snow, but that fact did not seem to disconcert him.
“i will carry you to the gap in the hedge, the way from there is easier for you to walk,” he said, and strode forward up the buried path.
clotilde was in an agony of anxiety long before he set her down. as they reached the hedge she looked up through the garden and saw the white gate swing open and five men in buff and blue dismount and come running in. at the sight of her companion, they gave a shout and advanced down the hill, stumbling and floundering in the deep snow.
“i yield you into the hands of your friends,” said the captain gravely but she could only wring her hands in an agony of terror and cry:
“oh, run, run!”
he was hardly a dozen feet from her when two shots rang out in rapid succession and he stopped, staggered for a second and then stumbled on.
“it is nothing,” he turned to call back to her with a reassuring smile, although his face was white with pain.
he set off again, but his pace grew ever slower and more faltering. across the field sounded once more the high, loud neighing of his horse.
clotilde, glancing in that direction, saw suddenly that two more men had been left at the edge of the lane and were now crouching behind a clump of bayberry bushes close to where the english officer must pass. as she watched one of them rose to his knees, levelled his musket and took deliberate aim.
“stop,” she cried out, turning to run toward them through the deep drifts. although her feet would scarcely carry her, she managed somehow to make her way along until she caught up with the wavering scarlet figure that was struggling nearer and nearer to the hidden enemy.
“you shall not shoot!” she called out loudly as she grasped him by the dripping sleeve of his red coat. “you shall not touch him; he is my prisoner!”
and to this the young officer made no remonstrance, for he had fallen face downward in the snow.
