Then, as they started down the stairs, she told how a dreadful-appearing man had come out of the tap-room, and stood glaring at her, as he demanded fiercely to know her business.

"I was so scared that I could not speak, and I did not dare go back into the room. I am sure the man was full of drink."

"Where is he? I see no one." And Mary craned her neck to look over the rail into the hall below.

"He went back into the taproom when he found I would not answer him."

They had now reached the foot of the staircase; and as though waiting for the clicking of their high heels on the oaken floor, the taproom door opened suddenly, and a great hulking fellow, with a red face, topped by a wild shock of black hair, came staggering against them.

Both girls cried out, and started to fly up the stairs. But they were rea.s.sured by the advent of Mistress Trask, who chanced to be coming down the hall, and who spoke sharply to the man, bidding him have a care how he ran into ladies.

"'T is only Farmer Gilbert," she said, turning to her frightened guests, and seeming surprised to find them in that part of the house.

"There's no cause to be alarmed, my pretties."

Mary glanced with disgust at the drunkard, who was now attempting a maudlin apology. But she said nothing, either to him or to the landlady, and went her way with Dorothy.

No sooner had they closed the door of their own apartments than they hurried to the light and examined the precious slip of paper.

It read: "A solemn promise given to Mistress Dorothy Devereux, of Marblehead. G. Washington."

"Oh, Dot," Mary exclaimed, "I never thought,--we have told him an untruth!"

Dorothy was still looking at the paper, but at Mary's alarming words she raised her eyes in wonder.

"You are not Mistress Dorothy Devereux, but Mistress--"

"Sh-h!" cried Dot, putting her hand quickly over Mary's lips. Then they looked at one another and laughed, but uneasily.

CHAPTER XXIX

Neither of the girls found much rest during the night, owing to the strangeness of their surroundings and the exciting experiences that had come to them. In addition to this, their wakefulness was increased by the noise of the gale outside.

The rain had ceased, but the wind at times attained such violence as to rattle the cas.e.m.e.nts like the jarring of a cannonade. Then its force would lessen, and it would moan about the gables and down the chimneys with a sound as though the patriots already fallen might be lamenting the long-continued siege of Boston.

With these deeper tones there would come loud shrieks, like the laughter of fiends, as if the Prince of Darkness and his legions were making merry over the impending downfall of goodly customs, uprooted by slaughter and bloodshed.

During the earlier part of the night there was some unusually loud talking outside, seeming to indicate a new excitement.

This caused the girls fresh alarm; but the matter was explained by the landlady, when she brought their breakfast in the morning.

A redcoat had been caught in the cornfield back of the house, and later on, his horse was found fastened in the woods near by.

When brought, as he was at once, before the Commander-in-Chief, the prisoner had denied indignantly the imputation of being a spy. Yet he had refused stubbornly to explain the reason for his being outside his own lines, and so close to the spot where a conference was being held between Washington and his officers.

He wore the British uniform, but this was concealed by an ordinary riding-cloak, and on his head was a civilian's hat.

"So," said the landlady, after telling the story, "if he be no spy, 't will be a hard matter for him to prove it, with everything lookin' so black. An', oh, mistress, he's as handsome as a picter, an' don't look to be twenty-five. It do seem a mortal pity that he must hang."

"Hang!" repeated Dorothy, with horror. "Why must he hang?"

"Why, surely ye know, mistress," the woman explained, "in war-times a spy be always hanged."

"Is it not dreadful--and will they hang him?" Mary asked with a shudder, staring into the face of the voluble landlady, who was now arranging the dishes upon the table.

"So the talk goes 'mongst the men. They had much ado with Farmer Gilbert, who was for takin' the young man an' hangin' him there an'

then. But he had to be brought afore General Washington himself. An'

now he's locked up in one o' the upper rooms, with Tommy Macklin pacin'

up an' down afore the door, like he was measurin' the hall for a new carpet, 'stead o' wearin' out the strip I wove with my own hands, out o' rags."

Dorothy, who sat facing Mary, her elbows on the table, and her chin resting in her small palms, now drew the landlady's attention by inquiring if she knew the prisoner's name.

"Yes,--I did get to hear it when General Washington asked him; for, to say truth, I was listenin' outside the door. He answered up fair enough, an' spoke it like there was naught to be ashamed of in the matter, neither. 'T was Captain Southorn."

She heard a half-choked gasp from Dorothy's lips, and saw the look that came to Mary's face as her eyes turned like a flash toward the younger girl.

"Is it possible he can be known to ye?" she asked quickly.

"Yes,--I think we met him once," Mary answered falteringly. "That is, we met a young man of the same name. But he was not a captain--only a cornet of dragoons."

"Still, it is like to be the same man," the landlady said rather insistingly, as though hoping that such was the fact. "Cornets grow quick to be captains in these woful days, if they be but brave, which surely this young man is, unless his looks belie him."

Neither of the girls had paid any attention to her, but sat motionless, each with her eyes riveted upon the other's face, as if seeking to read her thoughts.

But now they both looked at Mistress Trask, whose voice had lost its speculative tone, and was filled with intense earnestness.

"Oh, mistress," she was saying, still addressing Mary, "mayhap he be the same man ye've known. An' if this be so, I do beg ye to try what prayin' the favor of his pardon from Washington will do. 'T is a foul death--to be hanged; an' such as he ought surely to die in their beds, unless they come to die in battle. The General be still here, 'though Colonel Glover an' many o' the other officers left early this mornin'.

If they should take the young man out an' hang him, I'd never 'bide here another day. Will ye not go, mistress, an' try to save his life?"

Before Mary could reply, Dorothy spoke up.

"I will go," she said quietly, taking her elbows from the table, and with an expression in her eyes such as Mary never saw there before.

"Oh, do, mistress!" the landlady exclaimed eagerly, looking at the girl with admiration. "Pray do, an' G.o.d will bless ye for it."

But Mary protested, although weakly, and feeling that she had but little hope of success.

"No, Dot,--no," she said. "You must not,--it would never do. And then it might not be the same one, after all."

But her own belief contradicted her words, and sounded in her voice even as she uttered them. She was certain it was he who had appeared to be watching them when they came from Aunt Penine; and he had doubtless followed them to the tavern.

Dorothy made no reply until she drained a gla.s.s of milk the landlady filled for her; then she arose from the table.

"I am going," she said, as calmly as before. "Please," seeing that Mary was about to renew her objections, "say no more about it. I am going--and I prefer to go alone."

But Mary could not restrain herself.