The town was as silent as a city of the dead when the four started on their way, Master Storms--a fussy, irritable old gentleman--in advance, with his pretty daughter Patience hanging on his arm, and followed closely by the small erect figure of Dorothy, wrapped in her dark cloak; while Johnnie Strings, on guard against any unseen danger, walked directly behind her.

There were hurrying ma.s.ses of cloud overhead that made gorges and ravines, hemming in the glittering stars, now grown brighter since the moon had set; and the sound of the sea came faintly hoa.r.s.e, as the little party bent their steps in its direction. For near it lay the Storms domicile,--up near what was known as "Idler's Hill."

Suddenly a wild uproar broke out upon the night, coming from ahead of them; and Master Storms bringing his daughter to a halt, Dorothy and the pedler came up with them.

They all stood listening. There were the shouts and cries of a not-to-be-mistaken street fight; and the turmoil was becoming more distinct, as though the combatants were approaching.

Patience urged her father to hurry on towards their house; but he hesitated.

"What think you is amiss, Johnnie Strings?" he inquired nervously, fidgeting from one foot to the other, while his terrified daughter tugged at his arm.

"Usual trouble, I guess," drawled the pedler. "Redcoats paradin' the streets, and gettin' sa.s.sy." Then turning to Dorothy, he said, "Had n't ye best let me take ye back, Mistress Dorothy?"

Before she could answer him a small body of soldiers issued from a side street near by. A wavering, yelling crowd of angered men swept forward to meet them; and the two girls and their escorts found themselves in the midst of a struggling, shouting ma.s.s, with here and there a horseman looming up, whose headgear, faintly outlined in the uncertain light, proved him to be a British dragoon.

Master Storms seized his daughter by the arm, and taking advantage of an opening he saw in the crowd, darted through and sped with the girl down a narrow alley. But the pedler, trying to follow with Dorothy, was baffled by a number of the combatants closing in around them.

He shouted l.u.s.tily for them to make a pa.s.sage for himself and his charge; but although he was known to many of them, rage, and the l.u.s.t of battle, seemed to dull their ears to his voice.

In the midst of it all he was felled to the ground; and with no thought of tarrying to find out if he were hurt, Dorothy, seeing a small opening in the ma.s.s of men, dashed through it, with the intention of making her way back to the Hortons'.

She had gone only a short distance when her path was barred by several hors.e.m.e.n, who seemed to be the leaders of the troop. They had fought their way to a clearer s.p.a.ce, and were looking back as though for their followers to join them.

"Devils--fools," panted one. "They deserve to be wiped out."

"Aye," said another. "If we might use our weapons as we liked, I, for one, would take pleasure in having a hand at that game."

Dorothy attempted to glide by them, hoping that the dark color of the cloak she wore would save her from detection. But the voice of the first speaker called out gayly, "Aha, who goes there? Stop, pretty one, and give the countersign."

"Or, if indeed you be a pretty one, we'll take a kiss instead, and call it a fair deal," laughed another, as flippantly as if the night were not being rent with the uproar of the fighting mob just behind them.

Dorothy came to a standstill, and for the instant was uncertain which way to turn. Then she resolved to pursue the road she had taken, and said spiritedly, "Stand aside, and let me pa.s.s out of hearing of such insults, or it may be the worse for you."

She lifted her head as she spoke; and as the rays of a near-by lamp fell upon her face, one of the riders spurred toward her.

"Mistress Dorothy!" The voice made her heart leap; and then she felt sick and faint.

"Dear mistress,"--and now Cornet Southorn had dismounted close beside her--"let me conduct you safely out of this place, where you surely never should have come."

The other hors.e.m.e.n had drawn to one side and away from them, and were now silent.

Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, Dorothy permitted him to lift her to his saddle. He sprang up behind her, and holding her firmly with one arm about her waist, spurred his horse away from the scene, shouting to the others not to wait for him.

The uproar soon died away behind them, but still they sped on in silence. Then Dorothy heard the young man laugh, and in a way to frighten her, and rally her dreaming senses to instant alertness.

"So now, my sweet little rebel, you are my captive, instead of being my jailer, as that night in the summer." And she felt his breath touch her cheek. "You shall not speak to me in such fashion. And--oh, you have pa.s.sed the street leading to Mistress Morton's, which is where I must go."

Dorothy began with her usual imperiousness, but ended in affright as she saw the street fade into the darkness behind them.

"Is that where I stole like a thief to catch one glimpse of you, pretty one?" he asked, paying no heed to her indignation. "And I felt like committing murder, when I saw all the gallants who wanted your smiles for themselves."

"Take me back this minute!" she demanded angrily; but her heart was now thrilling with something that was not altogether rage nor fright.

"That will I not," he answered quickly, and with dogged firmness.

"You are no gentleman," she cried, beginning at last to feel real alarm, "if you do not take me to Mistress Morton's this minute."

The young man leaned forward until his lips were close to the girl's ear; and his deep voice, now trembling as with suppressed feeling, sent each word to her with perfect distinctness.

"I hope, sweet Mistress Dorothy, I am a gentleman," he said. "As such I was born, and have been accounted. But"--and his voice sank to a tremulous softness--"take you anywhere, I will not, until we have seen good Master Weeks, for whose house we are now bound. And when we leave it, it will be as man and wife."

"You--dare not," she gasped. "You dare not do such a thing."

He laughed softly. "Dare I not? Ah, but you mistake. I dare do anything to win you for my own. I know your sweet rebel heart better than you think, and I know that except it be done in some such manner, you may never be mine."

She tried to speak, but fright and dismay sealed her lips. Suddenly he bent his face still closer and whispered: "Ah, little sweetheart, how I long to kiss you! But my rose has its thorns; and I fear their stinging my face, as they did that day in the wood, ages ago,--so long it seems since I had the happy chance to hold speech with you."

Still Dorothy could not utter a word, seeming to be in a dream, while the powerful gray flew along the deserted streets that somehow looked new and strange to her eyes. And now she felt the broad breast pillowing her head, and she could feel distinctly the beating of his heart, as if his pulse and her own were one and the same.

And so they rode along in silence until they reached the house of Master Weeks, where the young man pulled up his horse, and without dismounting, pounded fiercely with his sword-hilt upon the door.

An upper window was soon raised, and a man's querulous voice demanded to know what was wanted.

"Make haste, and come down to see," was the impatient answer. "It is Cornet Southorn who wishes to speak with you."

The window was closed hastily, and a light soon flickered in the lower part of the house; and then came the noise of the door being unbarred.

The young man sprang to the ground and held out his arms.

"Come, sweetheart," he said, "let me lift you down, and I will fasten the horse to a ring in the step here. He has been fastened there before, but," with a soft laugh, "scarce for a like purpose."

Dorothy clung to the pommel. "I'll not,--I'll not!" she declared.

"You shall not dare do so wicked a thing, and Master Weeks will never dare listen to you."

"We'll see to that," he laughed, and lifted her from the saddle. Then, as she reached the ground, he kissed her, as he had that day in the wood.

"Be good to me, and true to yourself, my sweet little rebel," he whispered, "and fight no longer with truth and your own heart. Own that you love me, and know that I love you,--aye, better than my life."

"I care naught for your love," cried Dorothy, struggling to free herself from his arms. "And I tell you that I hate you!"

"Aye," and he laughed again, "so your lips say. But I know what your heart says, for your eyes told me that, long ago. And I shall listen to your heart and eyes, and pay no heed to your sweet little rebellious mouth."

They were now standing on the upper step of the small porch, and in the open doorway was the minister, Master Weeks, a candle in his hand, and held above his head as he peered out into the darkness with wonder filling his blinking eyes.

"Good Master Weeks, here is a little wedding party. And despite the unseemly hour, you must out with your book, and your clerk, as witness, for binding the bargain past all breaking."

With this, the young officer, carrying Dorothy in before him, entered the house and closed the door, against which he placed his broad back, his gleaming teeth and laughing eyes alight like a roguish boy's as he smiled down upon the bewildered little divine.