"I regret very much, sir, that you were injured," said Mary Broughton, her voice coming from over his head.

He glanced up at her and bowed mockingly. Then stooping to regain his hat, he said, bending his eyes on Dorothy, "Tell me the name I am to remember you by."

She did not answer; and he stood looking at her as though awaiting her pleasure.

"That can be no matter," she said at last, and in a very low voice.

"Ah, but it is--a very great matter," he exclaimed eagerly, laying a hand on her arm, as she turned away to climb up to the cavern.

Some inward force seemed to be impelling her, and scarcely aware of what she was saying, she murmured her own name, and he repeated it after her.

This brought a still deeper color to her cheeks; but as if remembering all she had so strangely forgotten in the presence of this enemy of her country, she pushed away his detaining hand, and pa.s.sed quickly up the rocks to where Mary was standing.

The young man said nothing more, but looked up at the two; then lifting his hat, he turned and walked slowly away.

CHAPTER XII

He had scarcely gone when the two girls made haste to leave the cave and return to the house.

"'T is most unfortunate for us, Dot, that he found the cave, or that all this should befall," said Mary, as they went down the rocks. "You know what we have to do to-night; and it may make our work dangerous, now that he has been here."

A soft whistle interrupted Dorothy's reply; and looking up, they saw the lean visage of Johnnie Strings, who was perched upon the rocks above the cave they had just left.

Having attracted their attention, the pedler made haste to join them.

"Well, I snum!" he exclaimed. "Mistress Mary, whatever was the Britisher seekin' about here, an' talkin' about? What ailed his head, all tied up, like 't was hurt?"

"He said he heard us talking, and came to see who it was," small 'Bitha took it upon herself to explain, "and Mary Broughton pushed him down the rocks."

Johnnie began to laugh, but Dorothy turned to the child and said, "'Bitha, you know that it is not true, for he stepped backward himself, and fell over."

"Yes; but 't was Mary made him," 'Bitha insisted. "And, 'though I was sorry to have him hurt, I was glad Mary made him go away."

"Were you there all the time, Johnnie Strings, and never came nigh to help us?" demanded Mary, indignantly. They were now walking along together, for Johnnie seemed inclined to accompany them to the house.

"Nay, nay, mistress," he declared emphatically, but still grinning, as though vastly pleased. "But I should say ye needed no help from me to frighten away redcoats. I only came up as I heard Mistress Dorothy say you'd made him fall into the water. Then I sat an' watched her tie up his head,--more 's the pity; for belike he'll only use it to hatch more deviltry for his soldiers to carry out hereabouts."

"Do you know who he is?" inquired Dorothy, her face taking on a little more color.

"Yes, mistress,--he is a dragoon. I saw him over at Salem t' other day. They call him Cornet Southorn; an' I only hope he don't get to know my face too well." Johnnie winked as he said this, and his voice had a note of mystery.

"I don't believe he would ever harm us," said Dorothy, paying no attention to the pedler's anxiety concerning himself.

Johnnie's eyes fastened upon her glowing face with a look of surprise as he remarked grimly, "He's a Britisher, an' our sworn enemy."

On the porch of the house they found Joseph Devereux, who listened with frowning brows while the girls told him of their adventure.

"Go within, child, to the grandame," he bade 'Bitha, when they had finished; and as soon as she was gone he said to the pedler, "Now, Strings, you may, or may not, know aught o' the work in hand for the night."

The pedler nodded understandingly. "Me an' Lavinia Amelia jogged a bit o' the mornin' down road with the party from here, an' I was reckonin'

to offer my help, should it be needed. I was on my way this very mornin' to tell ye that Master Broughton an' the rest thought I'd better have some of our own men 'round hereabouts, handy for the powder party to-night."

"'T is best that you do so, as matters have turned out. And 't is wiser that you be trusted to give the signals to the 'Pearl,' for a safe landing o' the stuff, and that Mary and Dorothy be left out o' the matter altogether. 'T is no work for women to risk, with the British soldiery skulking about the place."

The day pa.s.sed without event, save that a number of men--mostly brawny, weather-beaten sailors--came to the house, to go away again after a private converse with Joseph Devereux.

Johnnie Strings was about the place all day,--now wandering down to the beach to look out over the wide expanse of ocean, as he whittled unceasingly at a bit of stick and whistled softly to himself, or else sitting on the steps of the porch, telling wonderful stories to 'Bitha.

But wherever he was, or what doing, his keen little eyes were always roving here and there, as though on the lookout for something unexpected.

It was evident that he was nervous and ill at ease; and this, for Johnnie Strings, was a new thing.

Toward sunset he arose from the porch steps and gave a great sigh, as of relief that the day was ended. Then, without a word to any one, he tramped off in the direction of the Neck.

"'T is as well," he muttered to himself, "to see what the devils be doin', an' if they be like to suspect what is goin' on about 'em."

The sunset was of marvellous beauty. It was as if all the golds, purples, and scarlets of the hour had been pounded to a fine dust, and this was rolling in from over the ocean in one great opaline mist.

The waves, curling in to break upon the sands of Riverhead Beach, seemed to be pouring out flames and sparks; while the quieter waters of Great Bay, on the other side of the causeway, looked as though shot through with long, luminous rays of light, that slanted athwart the mists of prismatic coloring, to withdraw swiftly now and again, like search-lights seeking to probe the clear water to its uttermost depths.

But the far-off eastern horizon held aloof from all this glory. It stood out like a wall of pearl and cold gray, with no sail showing against it to Johnnie Strings' sharp eyes, as he took his way across the narrow strip of causeway that left the Devereux estate behind, and led to the Neck and the enemy's camp.

The pedler knew nothing of the pa.s.sion called love, else he would never have been so lacking in shrewdness as to formulate the scheme now working in his mind. And this, notwithstanding the suspicion that had shot through his wide-awake brain at the way he had seen Cornet Southorn looking into the downcast face of Dorothy Devereux, and had noted later her words in his defence.

His present idea--and one that had been gathering force all day--was to see the young officer, and while pretending to have come solely to inquire as to his injury, to so lead the talk as to impress upon his mind the needlessness of watching the Devereux place or household, which he should be made to understand consisted only of the women-folk and one enfeebled old gentleman,--the son being away in Boston.

And now, as he neared the enemy's quarters, he chuckled to himself at the cleverness of his scheme.

The British troops had taken possession of the entire Neck, occupying several large warehouses standing near the end, and appropriating even the buildings used by the lighthouse-keeper and his wife, who, with her two children and as many of her most precious possessions as she could carry, had gone across the bay to abide with friends in the town.

Johnnie Strings knew this, and gritted his teeth in silent rage as he saw a group of redcoats standing around a fire where they were cooking some of the good woman's chickens for their evening meal.

They hailed him good-naturedly, and invited him to join them, several of the soldiers recognizing him as one from whom they had purchased certain things necessary for their comfort.

But he declined their offer, and pulling his hat well over his forehead, the better to conceal his features, went on beyond to another group, and demanded to be taken to the presence of Cornet Southorn, speaking in a way to imply that he had an important message for that officer.

He was ushered at once into the front room of the lighthouse-keeper's abode, where, upon a settle drawn near the window overlooking Great Bay, sat the personage he desired to see.

The young man's head was still bandaged, and the table before him with food and dishes upon it was evidence of his having supped alone; this confirming what Johnnie Strings had suspected,--that the soldiers upon the Neck were at present under the charge of Cornet Southorn.

Captain Shandon, who should have been there,--an elegant fop, high in favor with the Governor,--was sure to avoid any rough service, such as this, preferring to remain until the last moment in Salem, where better fare, both as to food and wines, to say naught of the gentler s.e.x, was to be had.

Johnnie Strings stood in the shadow, without removing his hat, as Cornet Southorn demanded pleasantly enough to know his business.

"I came to see how your head was doin' at this hour o' the day, young sir," the pedler answered in an obsequious tone.