As the last two words came from his lips, the officer scowled. He was only five-and-twenty, and looked still younger; and he was boyish enough to resent any familiarity grounded upon his seeming youth.

"Have a care, old man, as to how you address His Majesty's officers,"

he said with some severity, accompanied by a pompousness illy in keeping with his frank, boyish face.

"I meant no harm, Cornet Southorn," the pedler replied in an apologetic way. "I saw ye over at Salem t' other day, when I was peddlin' my wares there; an' I've been all day at the house o' Mistress Dorothy Devereux, the young lady who tied up your hurt head this mornin'. And so"--here Johnnie smiled knowingly--"I came to see if ye were any the worse for your fall, which might have been a bit o' bad luck, had not the ledge caught ye an' held ye from slippin' into the sea."

The young man's manner changed at once.

"Did Mistress Dorothy Devereux send you to inquire?" he asked eagerly.

"She send me?" said the pedler cautiously, and lowering his voice.

"Lawks! 't is well her old father don't hear ye; 'though sure he be that feeble he's good for little but tongue fight, an' the only son be away to Boston for this many a day. An' that," he went on to say quickly, seeing that the young man was about to speak, "is one reason why 't is well for me to be about the place till the brother cares to come home, with all those women-folk there, an' no man but the old father, who is feeble, as I've said. An' 't is not very safe for them, who be easily frighted by strange men comin' 'round, 'specially soldiers."

This was a long speech for Johnnie to make, and he watched narrowly its effect upon the young officer. This was soon apparent, for he said at once, "You have done well to tell me of this, and I'll see to it that none of my men cause any annoyance to the ladies."

He fell so neatly into the trap that Johnnie Strings could scarcely keep from laughing outright; but all he said was--and very meekly: "Ye be most kind, sir, an' I'll tell Mistress Dorothy what ye say. An'

I'll tell her as well that your head be none the worse for its thumpin'

on the rocks." With this he backed toward the door.

"No, no," said Southorn, "my head is all right. But come back, won't you,--come and have something to drink before you go?" And he pounded vigorously on the table.

But Johnnie declined, with many thanks, a.s.serting that he never drank anything,--a statement fully in accord with his fict.i.tious story concerning the Devereux household. But he reckoned upon having accomplished his purpose, and so bowed himself out, just as a red-faced orderly appeared in response to his officer's summons.

"Never mind, Kief," said the latter, as the soldier stood stiffly in the doorway awaiting his orders. "I don't need you now." Then, as the man saluted and turned to go, he asked, "Who is that fellow who just left? Do you know?"

"Johnnie Strings, sir, the pedler; 'most everybody knows 'im 'twixt Boston town and Gloucester."

"Ah, yes, I've heard of him before. That is all, Kief; you may go."

As soon as he was alone, Kyrle Southorn, Cornet in His Majesty's Dragoons, bethought himself of how strangely lacking he had been in proper dignity during his brief interview with this humble pedler; and a feeling of sharp anger beset him for a moment as he took himself to task for his unofficerlike demeanor and manner of speech.

Then came a mental picture of the distracting face he had seen that same morning; he seemed to be looking once more into the girl's eyes, and feeling the soft touch of her little hands about his head.

He recalled all this, and gave utterance to a queer, short laugh, as though in the effort to excuse his folly.

"Either that girl has bewitched me," he muttered, lying back in his chair, "or else the cut in my head has been making me addlepated all day." And he let his gaze wander out through the window, where the dusk was coming fast, blotting out the fort and town like a dark veil, pierced here and there by the dimly twinkling lights showing from the houses.

"I wonder if she sent the fellow?" his thoughts ran on. "She told me she was sorry for my being hurt, and she looked it. But the other--the fair one--she was a tartar." And he laughed again at the recollection of Mary Broughton's angry blue eyes and dauntless bearing.

"From what I've seen of these folk," he said, now half aloud, "it will be no easy matter to suppress their meetings and make them obey His Majesty's laws. They seem not to know what fear or submission may mean." Then, after pondering a few minutes, "I wonder if it would not be a wise thing for me to call upon this man Devereux, as he is so old and feeble, and a.s.sure him and his women-folk that I will see to it they be not molested--annoyed in any way? I might see her again,--I might come to know her; and this would be very pleasant." And now his thoughts trailed away into rosy musings.

If Johnnie Strings had not added fresh fuel to the fire already kindled in the breast of the impetuous young Englishman by Dorothy's sweet face and pitying eyes,--had he not made it burn more fiercely by giving him reason to believe that she had sent to inquire for his welfare,--he might not have thought to carry out his present impulse.

He was seized by a strong desire to see for himself the place where she dwelt,--to look upon her surroundings,--to make more perfect the picture already in his mind, by adding to it the scenes amid which her daily life was pa.s.sed.

Such was the young man's desire; and his was a nature whose longing was likely to manifest itself by acts, and more especially now, in the very first heart affair of his life.

As soon as the guards were posted and the countersign given out, he discarded his uniform for a fisherman's rough coat, and put on a large slouch hat, which covered his head, bandage and all. And thus attired, he set forth alone to visit the scene of his morning's adventure, and to investigate its surroundings.

CHAPTER XIII

The night was clear, bright, and starlit, with not a wreath of vapor drifting. The rising wind moaned through the woods about the Devereux homestead, that loomed, a dark ma.s.s, and silent as a deserted house.

From the sh.o.r.e below came the hoa.r.s.e roar of the tumbling water, to mingle with the wailing murmur of the wind; and now and then could be heard, clear-cut and eerie, the cry of a screech-owl from the woods.

As evening closed in, Joseph Devereux had ordered that no lights be shown about the house, lest they might attract the attention of any straggling soldiers; and he felt a.s.sured that this warning would be sufficient to intimidate the women into the greatest caution.

As for the men, they were all, even old Leet, out with the party watching at the "Black Hole,"--a bit of the sea shut in by a wood that bordered a wide sweep of meadow known as the "Racc.o.o.n Lot." It was here that the expected powder and arms were to be concealed by burying them in the earth, after being wrapped in oilskin coverings.

Johnnie Strings had gone alone to the Sachem's Cave, ready to give the signal.

The cave was somewhat farther down the sh.o.r.e, and a light shown above it could be plainly seen from the open sea.

The rising wind piped softly about the closed window where Mary Broughton was sitting in the starlight, absorbed in her own anxious thoughts, until aroused by something unusual in Dorothy's appearance and manner of moving about. The girl was at the farther side of the unlit room, and Mary asked her what she was doing.

A low laugh was the only answer; and upon the question being repeated, Dorothy came to the window, and Mary saw that she was clad in a complete suit of boy's clothes.

The unexpected transition was so startling that for a moment she could not speak, but sat looking at Dorothy in amazement.

"Oh, Dot," she then exclaimed, "you should take shame to yourself for doing such a thing!"

She could see, even in the gloom, the wilful toss of Dorothy's head, whose curls were let down and tied back with a ribbon, thus completing the masculine disguise.

"Whatever are you thinking about, to play such pranks at a time like this?" Mary demanded reproachfully.

"That is just it, Mary," Dorothy replied. She seemed in no wise abashed, but spoke with perfect seriousness. "I do it because of the time, and of what is going to happen to-night. Father said 't was not safe for us to go abroad, because we wore petticoats. Now here is this old suit Jack outgrew years ago, and I've always kept it to masquerade in; but to-night it will serve me in a more serious matter. I cannot stop in the house; I am too anxious about Jack. I want to see him and the others get ash.o.r.e in safety; and I've no fear but, dressed in this way, it will be easy for me to do so."

"But you must not," Mary protested. "How can you dare to think of such a thing? Suppose some of the men should recognize you,--and they will be keeping a sharp lookout for strangers--what would your father say?"

And she began to have thoughts of seeing him, and so frustrating this wild scheme.

"I tell you I must go, and will go, Mary; so do not try to prevent me.

I know every inch of ground hereabouts, and can easily keep out of the way, even should any one try to hinder me. Why will you not go with me?"

Dorothy spoke quietly, but very earnestly; and as she finished, she placed both her hands on Mary's shoulders, as though to compel her consent.

Mary hesitated. There was in her own heart a like desire to that of the younger girl; she, too, wished to get out of doors, and see all that should take place. But she held herself to be more prudent than the impulsive Dorothy, and so for a time she demurred with her inclination.

But it was only for a time. Dorothy's impetuous arguments fairly swept her off her balance, as usually happened with any one who was fond of the girl; and Mary agreed to be her companion.

It was some minutes after this when the two stole noiselessly down the back stairway and let themselves out of the door opening toward the sheds at the rear of the house. As Dorothy locked it on the outside and put the key in her pocket, she whispered: "We might have bribed Tyntie to let us out, but 't is as well not to risk getting her into trouble. I shall tell father all about it to-morrow, and I know of a certainty he'll not be angry. To be sure, he may scold me a little; but"--with a low laugh--"I can soon kiss him into good humor again."

"Don't you think, Dot, it is rather of a shame,--the way you do things, and then tell your father afterwards?" Mary asked as they walked along.

"a.s.suredly not," was the ready answer, "else I might not get so many chances to 'do things,' as you call it. I never do aught that is really wrong; I love my father far too dearly for that. But I am young, and he is old; and that, I suppose, is why we do not think alike about all matters. He has often said I ought to have been a boy, and I agree with him; though I dare say I shall be a proper enough old maid some day. Only," with a laugh, "I cannot quite imagine such a thing."

"No," said Mary, looking into Dorothy's eyes, bright as the stars that were now being shut away by the branches of the trees in the woods they were entering; "no--nor I. But we'd best stop our chattering and use our eyes and ears. Heavens! what's that?" And she clutched Dot's arm in sudden fright as a wild cry rang out directly over their heads.