Part 8 (2/2)
”And she is truly a loyalist?”
”If not, I know no better. The rebel blood is all in the boy so far as I can learn, yet I will not answer for what Mistress Claire might do.”
We fell silent, my memory with the girl, endeavoring to recall her exact words, the expression of her face. It was not in my heart to believe she had deceived me. There was no reason why she should, and it was easy to conceive how she had naturally become part of the gay pageant, herself an exile, and with both father and lover in the King's service. Her very fun-loving disposition would lead her to take interest in the affair, while beyond doubt her friends.h.i.+ps would all influence her in that direction. Yet down deep in her heart, I still believed, there was loyalty to the Colonies, a desire to aid them in their struggle, and, I sincerely hoped, a distrust and growing aversion to the man, Grant.
Certainly she could not love the fellow; that thought was inconceivable.
Whatever prearranged ties might still bind, she was already in almost open rebellion against them. 'T was not in woman's nature to love one man, and then aid another to outwit him. And she had done all this, and of her own free will; done it with her eyes looking frankly into mine, knowing who I was, and my real purpose in Philadelphia. No statement of another could shake my confidence, or make me feel she had deliberately deceived. Only through some action, or some direct word of her own, would I permit my faith to be shattered.
Plunged deeply in these thoughts, I had almost forgotten where I was, as well as the presence of my companion, when he suddenly arose to his feet, and, pus.h.i.+ng aside the wooden window shutter, looked out. A glance of his keen eyes was sufficient.
”Get back into your box, Major,” he exclaimed quickly. ”Pull the papers over you.”
I was upon my feet, conscious of the distant sound of horses' hoofs.
”What is it? The enemy?”
”Rangers; fifty of them, I judge, an' they'll never pa.s.s here without rummaging around. Quick now, under cover.”
”But what about yourself?”
”Don't worry about me; those fellows haven't any evidence against me--yet. They're after you.”
I was through the intervening door with a bound, and an instant later had burrowed under the crumpled papers. The s.h.i.+fting of the sun had left this corner of the repair shop in shadow, but I was scarcely outstretched in my hastily improvised hiding place, when I heard the blacksmith calmly open his outer door, where he stood smoking, clad in leathern ap.r.o.n, awaiting the approaching hors.e.m.e.n. They swept about the corner of the smithy almost at the same moment, pulling up their tired horses at sight of him. From amid the thud of hoofs, and the rattle of accoutrements, a voice spoke sharply:
”So you're here, Farrell, you old rebel hypocrite. Well, what are you hiding now?”
”I was not aware that I had anything to hide, Captain Grant,” was the dignified response. ”This is my shop, an' where I should be.”
”Oh, h.e.l.l! We all know you well enough, you old fox, and we'll catch you red-handed yet, and hang you. But we're not hunting after your kind to-day. Did you see anything of a fellow in scarlet jacket along here last night, or this morning?”
I failed to catch Farrell's answer, but the voice of the officer was sufficiently loud to reach me.
”A rebel spy; the sneaking rascal must have swam the Delaware. We'll look about your shop just the same before we ride on. Mason, take a half-dozen men with you, and rake the place over.”
I heard the sound of their boots on the floor, and burrowed lower in my box. Two or three entered the old shop, and began to probe about among the _debris_. One kicked the box in which I lay, and thrust a bayonet down through the loose papers, barely missing my shoulder. With teeth clinched I remained breathless, but the fellow seemed satisfied, and moved on, after searching the dark corner beyond. At last I heard them all go out, mumbling to each other, and ventured to sit up again, and draw a fresh breath. They had left the door ajar, and I had a glimpse through the crack. Farrell was leaning carelessly in the outer doorway, smoking, his short legs wide apart, his expression one of total indifference. A big fellow stepped past him, and saluted some one just out of sight.
”n.o.body in there, sir,” he reported.
”All right, Mason,” and Grant came into view on a rangy sorrel. ”Get your men back into saddle; we'll move on.”
”Think he went this way?” asked the blacksmith carelessly.
”How the h.e.l.l do I know!” savagely. ”He must have started this way, but likely he took the north road. We'll get the chap before night, unless he runs into Delavan's fellows out yonder. See here, Farrell,” holding in his horse, ”we'll be back here about dark, and will want something to eat.”
”You will be welcome to all you find.”
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