He stopped and looked at her beseechingly. But she would not raise her eyes, and stood pushing at the spray of asters with the tip of her little buckled shoe, while she asked, "Think you I only find pleasure in going about the country to lock folk up?"

She spoke with perfect seriousness; and yet there was that in her look and manner to make his heart give a great bound.

"I think of nothing, care for nothing," he replied, almost impatiently, "save that you are the sweetest little girl I ever met."

Something in his voice made Dorothy glance up at his face, and she saw his eyes bent upon her lips with a look that startled her into a fear of what he might have in his mind to do. So, drawing herself up, she said with all the dignity she could muster, "Such speech may perchance be an English custom, sir; but 't is not such as gentlemen in our country think proper to address to a girl they may chance upon, as you have me."

"Sweet Mistress Dorothy," and he seemed to dwell lovingly upon her name, "I crave your pardon. I meant no lightness nor disrespect. And if I have lost my head, and with it my manners, you have but to look into your mirror, and you'll surely see why."

Dorothy knew not how to reply to this bold speech, and the look that came with it. They made her angry, and yet she knew that the flush upon her cheeks did not come from anger alone, but that a certain undefinable pleasure had much to do with it. Then came the consciousness that she had no right to be where she was, and the fear of danger coming from it. And this was sufficient to make her say with some impatience: "'T is idle to stand here prating in such fashion.

Please release my hands, and let me go. I should be well on my way home by now."

He bent his head suddenly, and without a word kissed her hands. And the burning touch of his lips made her pulses thrill and her heart beat with what she knew to be delight,--exultation.

Then, like a rushing flood, reason a.s.sailed her conscience, that she should permit a hated redcoat--one whom she ought to detest--to kiss her hands, and not feel enraged at his boldness. And so, filled with indignation, she pulled one hand away, and raising it quickly, gave his face a ringing slap.

He started back and placed a hand to his cheek, now showing a more flaming color than her own, and for a moment his eyes were alight with an angry glitter. But he said nothing, and bowing low before her, stood away from the path.

Dorothy picked up her basket, and without glancing toward him pa.s.sed along on her way. But her eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears, which were soon trickling down her burning cheeks.

What had she done, and what could she do, in this new, strange matter, of which she might not speak to her father? How was she to act toward him from whom she had never yet withheld her confidence?

And still how could she speak to any one--even him--of what was giving birth to thoughts and feelings such as she had never dreamed of before?

With all this--and in spite of it--came the question as to what the redcoat would think of her now,--a maiden who went about at night masquerading in masculine garb, and who slapped His Majesty's officers in the face?

There came to her a woful sense of shame,--yes, of degradation, such as her young life had never imagined could exist, and seeming to overwhelm her with its possible results.

She was startled by a sudden footfall close behind her, and without looking back, she quickened her pace into a run. But now a strong arm was thrown about her waist, holding her fast; and she caught a fiery gleam of the scarlet coat against which her head was pressed by the hand that, although it trembled a little, prisoned her cheek with gentle firmness.

Then a mouth was bent close to her ear, so close that its quick breath fanned the tiny curling locks about her temples, and a voice whispered: "Sweetheart, forgive me--for G.o.d's love, forgive me! I cannot let you go in this way; for see, you are weeping. Surely this pretence of anger is unjust,--unjust to you and to me!"

Before she could speak, the voice went on, "Little rebel, sweet little rebel, will you not surrender to--a vanquished victor?" And with this, a kiss was pressed upon her lips.

At first Dorothy had been too startled to speak,--too frightened and dumb from the tumult his caressing voice had aroused within her. But the touch of his lips awakened her like a blow.

"How dare you?" she cried, struggling from his arms. "Oh, how I wish I had never seen you!"

"You can scarce expect me to feel likewise," he said calmly, smiling into her stormy little face, "for I--"

"Never speak to me again!" she interrupted, still more hotly. And then, as the tears of anger choked her voice, she turned from him and fled away down the path.

For a time she heard him in pursuit; and this made her run all the swifter, until at last, reaching the Salem road, she glanced back as she mounted the low stone wall, and saw that he had stopped where the timber ended, and stood watching her. Then without turning to look again, she went quickly across the sunlit meadow-land.

Her breath came sobbingly; and mingled with her terror was a feeling she could not define, but which told her that life would never be the same for her again. She still felt the clasp of his arms about her, the burning of his lips upon her hands,--their pressure upon her mouth.

His voice still came caressingly to her ears, and the wind seemed to be his breath over her hair.

It was not long before she saw Pashar coming to meet her; and drawing the hood about her face, she bade him go for the basket she had left in the wood. Then, without waiting for him to return with it, she hastened directly to her father's house.

She reached her own room without having encountered any of the household, and throwing off her cloak went to the gla.s.s. There, resting her elbows on the low, broad shelf, and dropping her soft round chin into her small palms, she seemed to be studying what the mirror showed to her,--studying it with as much interest as though she now saw the reflection of her features for the first time.

"You are a wicked, treacherous girl," she said aloud, addressing the charming face staring back at her with great solemn eyes, "a perfect little traitor." Then--but now to herself--"Moll said his heart turned toward me as the flowers to the sun. And if this be true, why is it not also truth that sorrow is to come with it?" She shivered, and pressed her hands over her eyes.

"Cousin Dot!" called a small voice outside the locked door.

"Yes, 'Bitha." Dorothy started guiltily, and made haste to dash some water over her glowing face and tell-tale eyes.

"Aunt Lettice says the meal is ready," came the announcement from without; "and Hugh Knollys is below with Uncle Joseph."

Dorothy felt thankful for this, as a guest at dinner would serve the better to divert attention from herself; and making a hasty toilette, she descended to the dining-room.

She found them all at the table, with Hugh at her father's right hand, and directly opposite her own place. The young man arose as she entered the room, and responded with his usual heartiness to the greeting she tendered him. But with it all he gave her so odd a look as to make her wonder if he saw aught amiss in her appearance.

The two men resumed their talk of public matters and the town's doings, and were soon so absorbed that Dorothy was able to remain as silent as she could have wished.

It had been resolved not to import, either directly or indirectly, any goods from Great Britain or Ireland after the first of the coming December. And in case the tyrannical decrees of the mother country should not be repealed by the 10th of the following September, it was agreed that no commodities whatever should be exported to Great Britain, Ireland, or the British West Indies.

This would bring about an embarra.s.sing state of affairs for both the men who were now discussing the matter, as they, like many others in the town, had derived a considerable income from such exporting.

"But we'll stand shoulder to shoulder, Hugh," said Joseph Devereux, firmly, "if so be we forfeit every penny, until the oppressors give us fair dealings or we drive every redcoat from our soil. I will kill every cow and sheep--aye, and every horse as well, and cut down every stick o' timber on my land, for the keeping of us and our friends fed and warmed, but that I will maintain the stand I've pledged myself to keep."

"Let us hope, sir, that the redcoats will not first seize your cattle,"

said Hugh, his eyes fixed gravely upon the abstracted young face opposite him. "I met Trent as I was riding along the pastures, and he told me the sheep had escaped through a broken place in the fence of the ten-acre lot, and he had a chase after them to Riverhead Beach. He said he met a party of soldiers there, and they deliberately took one of the sheep from under his very nose, and carried it off with them to the Neck. And when he remonstrated with them, they only laughed at him, and told him to send the bill to the King for the dinner they would have."

The old man's eyes flashed with anger as he listened to this.

"It is an outrage!" he exclaimed when Hugh had finished,--"to steal stock under our very eyes. I must see Trent about the matter, and the cattle must be kept nigh the house."

"Why not take them by boatloads over to the islands till the redcoats be gone, as has been done before, for pasturage?" The suggestion came from Aunt Lettice, and was made rather timidly.

"You were never cut out for a farmer's wife, Lettice, my dear," her brother-in-law replied, a good-humored smile now breaking over his face, "else you'd remember there is no pasturage there at this time o'

year. And I doubt if they'd be so safe on the islands as here, for Trent and the men would have to go each day with fodder for them, and the soldiers' spying eyes would be sure to note the coming and going o'

the boats. No," he added with decision, "I shall have the flocks kept penned, nigh the house; and I shall make complaint o' this matter to the Governor. As for the rest," and he smiled grimly, "I take it our guns can protect ourselves and our property."

CHAPTER XXI

Hugh Knollys was so much a member of the household that Aunt Lettice thought nothing of going her own way when dinner was over and leaving him in the living-room with Dorothy; and the two now sat on one of the low, broad window-seats, watching Joseph Devereux as he went out of doors in search of Trent, with 'Bitha dancing along beside him.

"How fast 'Bitha is growing!" Hugh remarked. "She will soon be taller than you, Dot. Although, to be sure," he added with a laugh, "that is not saying very much."

Dorothy did not reply. Indeed it would seem that she had not heard him; and now he laid his hand softly upon one of her own to arouse her attention as he called her by name.

At this she started, and turned her face to him.

"What, Hugh--what is it?" she asked confusedly.