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 wa............