Chambers Robert William
The Hidden Children
We all laughed a little, and Captain Fancher said:
"Minute Men are Minute Men, Mr. Boyd. You are welcome to any you can enlist from my company."
Alsop Hunt, being a Quaker, and personally opposed to physical violence, offered no suggestion until the second object of our visit was made known. Then he said, very quietly:
"Mayaro, the Mohican Sagamore, is in this vicinity."
"How do you know that, Alsop?" asked Major Lockwood quickly.
"I saw him yesterday."
"Here in Poundridge?"
Mr. Hunt glanced at Colonel Thomas, then with a slight colour mounting to his temples:
"The Sagamore was talking to one of the camp-women last evening—toward sundown on the Rock Hills. We were walking abroad for the air, my wife and I–" he turned to Major Lockwood: "Betsy whispered to me, 'There is a handsome wench talking to an Indian!' And I saw the Sagamore standing in the sunset light, conversing with one of the camp-women who hang about Colonel Thomas's regiment.".
"Would you know the slattern again?" asked Colonel Thomas, scowling.
"I think so, Colonel. And to tell the truth she was scarce a slattern, whatever else she may be—a young thing—and it seemed sad to us—to my wife and me."
"And handsome?" inquired Boyd, smiling at me.
"I may not deny it, sir," said Mr. Hunt primly. "The child possessed considerable comeliness."
"Why," said Boyd to me, laughingly, "she may be the wench you so gallantly rescued an hour since." And he told the story gayly enough, and with no harm meant; but it embarrassed and annoyed me.
"If the wench knows where the Sagamore may be found," said Major Lockwood, "it might be well for Mr. Loskiel to look about and try to find her."
"Would you know her again?" inquired Colonel Thomas.
"No, sir, I–" And I stopped short, because what I was about to say was not true. For, when I had sent the soldiers about their business and had rejoined Boyd—and when Boyd had bidden me turn again because the girl was handsome, there had been no need to turn. I had seen her; and I knew that when he said she was beautiful he said what was true. And the reason I did not turn, to look again was because beauty in such a woman should inspire no interest in me.
I now corrected myself, saying coolly enough:
"Yes, Colonel Thomas, on second thought I think I might know her if I see her."
"Perhaps," suggested Captain Fancher, "the wench has gone a-gypsying after the convoy."
"These drabs change lovers over night," observed Colonel Thomas grimly. "Doubtless Sheldon's troopers are already consoling her."
Colonel Sheldon, who had been fiddling uneasily with his sword-knot, exclaimed peevishly:
"Good God, sir! Am I also to play chaplain to my command?"
There was a curious look in Colonel Thomas's eyes which seemed to say: "You might play it as well as you play the Colonel;" but Sheldon was too stupid and too vain, I think, to perceive any affront.
And, "Where do you lodge, gentlemen?" inquired our Major, addressing us both; and when he learned that we were roofless he insisted that we remain under his roof, nor would he hear of any excuses touching the present unsuitability of our condition and attire.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen! I will not accept a refusal," he said. "We are plain folk and live plainly, and both bed and board are at your disposal. Lord, sir! And what would Clinton think were I to send two officers of his corps d'élite to a village ordinary!"
We had all risen and were moving toward the door. A black servant came when the Major pulled the bell card, and showed Boyd and myself to two pretty chambers, small, but very neat, where the linen on the beds smelled fresh and sweet, and the westering sun struck golden through chintz curtains drawn aside.
"Gad!" said Boyd, eying the bed. "It's long since my person has been intimately acquainted with sheet and pillow. What a pretty nest, Loskiel. Lord! And here's a vase of posies, too! The touch feminine—who could mistake it in the sweet, fresh whiteness of this little roam!"
Presently came our rifleman, Jack Mount, bearing our saddle-bags; and we stripped and washed us clean, and put on fresh linen and our best uniforms of soft doeskin, which differed from the others only in that they were clean and new, and that the thrums were gayer and the Iroquois beadwork more flamboyant.
"If I but had my hair in a snug club, and well powdered," sighed Boyd, lacing his shirt. "And I tell you, Loskiel, though I would not boast, this accursed rifle-shirt and these gaudy leggings conceal a supple body and a leg as neatly turned as any figure more fortunately clothed in silken coat and stockings!"
I began to laugh, and he laughed, too, vowing he envied me my hair, which was yellow and which curled of itself so that it needed no powder.
I can see him yet, standing there in the sunshine, both hands gripping his dark hair in pretense of grief, and vowing that he had a mind to scalp himself for very vexation. Alas! That I remember now such idle words, spoken in the pride and strength and gayety of youth! And always when I think of him I remember his dread of fire—the only fear he ever knew. These things—his brown eyes and quick, gay smile—his lithe and supple person—and his love of women—these I remember always, even while already much that concerned this man and me begins to fade with the stealthy years.
While the sun still hung high in the west, and ere any hint of evening was heard either in the robin's note or from the high-soaring martins, we had dressed. Boyd went away first, saying carelessly that he meant to look to the horses before paying his respects to the ladies. A little later I descended, a black servant conducting me to the family sitting room.
Here our gallant Major made me known to his lady and to his numerous family—six young children, and still a seventh, the pretty maid whom we had seen on approaching the house, who proved to be a married daughter. Betsy, they called her—and she was only seventeen, but had been two years the wife of Alsop Hunt.
As for the Major's lady, who seemed scarce thirty and was six years older, she so charmed me with her grace, and with the bright courage she so sweetly maintained in a home which every hour of the day and night menaced, that even Mrs. Hunt, with her gay spirits, imperious beauty, and more youthful attractions, no more than shared my admiration for her mother.
In half an hour Lieutenant Boyd came in, was presented, and paid his homage gayly, as he always did. Yet, I thought a slight cloud rested on his brow, but this soon passed, and I forgot it.
So we talked of this and that as lightly as though no danger threatened this house; and Boyd was quickly at his best with the ladies. As for me, I courted the children. And I remember there were two little maids of fourteen and eleven, Ruhannah and Hannah, sweet and fresh as wild June roses, who showed me the tow cloth for our army which they were spinning, and blushed at my praise of their industry. And there was Mary, ten, and Clarissa, eight, and two little boys, one a baby—all save the last two children carding or spinning flax and tow.
It was not easy to understand that this blooming matron could be mother of all of these, so youthful she seemed in her Quaker-cut gown of dove-colour—though it was her handsome, high-spirited daughter who should have worn the sober garb.
"Not I," said she, laughing at Boyd. "I'd sooner don jack-boots and be a dragoon—and we would completely represent a holy cause, my husband with his broad-brim and I with my sword. What do you say, Mr. Boyd?"
"I beg of you first to consider the rifle-frock if you must enlist!" urged Boyd, with such fervour that we all laughed at his gallant effort to recruit such beauty for our corps; for even a mental picture of Betsy Hunt in rifle-frock seemed too adorable. Mr. Hunt, entering, smiled in his quiet, embarrassed way; and I thought that this wise and gentle-mannered man must have more than a handful in his spirited young wife, whose dress was anything but plain.
I had taken the tiny maid, Clarissa, upon my knees and was telling her of the beauty of our Northland, and of that great, dusky green ocean of giant pines, vast as the sea and as silent and uncharted, when Major Lockwood bent over me saying in a quiet voice that it might be well for me to look about in the town for the wench who knew the whereabouts of Mayaro.
"While there is still daylight," he added, as I set Clarissa on the floor and stood up, "and if she be yet here you should find her before supper time. We sup at six, Mr. Loskiel."
I bowed, took leave of the ladies, exchanged an irritated glance for Boyd's significant grin, and went out to the porch, putting on my light round cap of moleskin. I liked neither my present errand, nor Boyd's smile either.
Now, I had not thought to take with me my side-arms, but a slave waited at the door with my belt. And as I buckled it and hung war-axe and heavy hunting blade, I began to comprehend something of the imminent danger which so apparently lurked about this country. For all military men hereabouts went armed; and even in the house I had noticed that Major Lockwood wore his sword, as did the other officers—some even carrying their pistols.
The considerable throng of people whom we had first seen in the neighborhood of the house had scattered or gone off when the infantry had left. Carpenters were still sawing and hammering on the flimsy new barracks down in the meadow, and there seemed to be a few people there. But on strolling thither I saw nothing of the wench; so turned on my heel and walked briskly up the road.
About the village itself there was nothing to be seen of the girl, nor did I know how to make inquiries—perhaps dreading to do so lest my quest be misunderstood or made a jest of by some impertinent fellow.
In the west a wide bank of cloud had pushed up over the horizon and was already halving the low-hanging sun, which presently it entirely swallowed; and the countryside grew luminously grey and that intense green tinged the grass, which is with us the forerunner of an approaching storm.
But I thought it far off, not then knowing the Hudson's midsummer habits, nor the rapid violence of the July storms it hatches and drives roaring among the eastern hills and across the silvery Sound.
So, with a careless glance aloft, I pursued my errand, strolling hither and thither through the pleasant streets and lanes of old Poundridge, always approaching any groups of soldiers that I saw because I thought it likely that the wench might haunt her kind.
I did not find her; and presently I began to believe it likely that she had indeed gone off a-gypsying after the escort companies toward Lewisboro.
There is a road which, skirting the Stone Hills, runs east by north between Cross Pond and the Three Lakes; and, pursuing it, I came on a vidette of Sheldon's regiment, most carelessly set where he could see nothing, and yet be seen a mile away.
Supposing he would halt me, I walked up to him; and he continued to munch the green bough-apple he was eating, making me a most slovenly salute.
Under his leather helmet I saw that my dragoon was but a child of fifteen—scarce strong enough to swing the heavy sabre at his pommel or manage the sawed-off musket which he bore, the butt resting wearily on his thigh. And it made me sober indeed to see to what a pass our country had come, that we enlisted boys and were obliged to trust to their ignorance for our protection.
"It will rain before sundown," he said, munching on his apple; "best seek shelter, sir. When it comes it will come hard."
"Where runs this road?" I asked.
"To Boutonville."
"And what is Boutonville?"
"It's where the Boutons live—a mile or two north, sir. They're a wild parcel."
"Are they of our party?"
"Oh, yes, sir. But they hunt the leather-caps as we hunt quail—scare up a company, fire, and then track down the scattered."
"Oh; irregulars."
"No, sir, not skinners. They farm it until the British plague them beyond endurance. Then," he added significantly, "they go a-hunting with their dogs."
I had already turned to retrace my steps when it occurred to me that perhaps an inquiry of this lad might not be misunderstood.
So I walked up to his horse and stood caressing the sorry animal while I described to him the wench I was seeking.
"Yes, sir," he said seriously, "that's the one the boys are ever plaguing to make her rage."
"Do you know her?"
"By sight, yes, sir."
"She is one of the camp followers, I take it," said I carelessly.
"I don't know. The boys are ever plaguing her. She came from the North they say. All I know is that in April she was first seen here, loitering about the camp where the White Plains Indians were embodied. But she did not go off with the Continentals."
"She was loitering this afternoon by the camp of Colonel Thomas's men," I said.
"Very like, sir. Did the men plague her?"
"Yes."
He bit into his apple, unconcerned:
"They are all after her. But I never saw her kind to any man—whatever she may be."
Why, I did not know, but what he said gave me satisfaction.
"You do not know which way she went?" I asked.
"No, sir. I have been here but the half hour. She knows the Bouton boys yonder. I have seen her coming and going on this road, sometimes with an Indian–"
"With a Sagamore?"
He continued his munching. Having swallowed what he chewed, he said:
"I know nothing of savages or Sagamores. The Indian may have been a Sagamore."
"Do you know where he is to be found?"
"No, sir, I do not."
"Perhaps this young girl knows?"
"Doubtless she does, seeing she journeys about with him on the ridge yonder, which we call the Rock Hills."
"Do you know her name, soldier?"
"They call her Lois, I believe."
And that was all the news I could get of her; and I thanked the boy and slowly started to retrace my steps toward the village.
Already in the air there was something of that stillness which heralds storms; no leaves on bush and tree were now stirring; land and sky had grown sombre all around me; and the grass glimmered intensely green.
Where the road skirted the Stone Hills were no houses, nothing, in fact, of human habitation to be seen save low on the flank of the rocky rampart a ruined sugar house on the edge of a maple ridge, I do not know what made me raise my head to give it a second glance, but I did; and saw among the rocks near it a woman moving.
Nor do I know, even now, how at that distance and in the dusk of a coming storm I could perceive that it was she whom I was now seeking. But so certain was I of this that, without even taking thought to consider, I left the highway, turned to the right, and began to mount the hillside where traces of a path or sheep-walk were faintly visible under foot among the brambles. Once or twice I glanced upward to see whether she observed me, but the scrubby foliage now hid her as well as the sap-house, and I hastened because the light was growing very dim now, and once or twice, far away, I thought I heard the muttering of thunder.
It was not long before I perceived the ramshackle sap-house ahead of me among the maples. Then I caught sight of her whom I was seeking.
It was plain that she had not yet discovered me, though she heard me moving in the thicket. She stood in a half-crouching, listening attitude, then slowly began to retreat, not cowering, but sullenly and with a certain defiance in her lithe movement, like some disturbed and graceful animal which is capable of defending itself but prefers to get away peaceably if permitted.
I stepped out into the clearing and called to her through the increasing gloom; and for a moment thought she had gone. Then I saw her, dimly, watching me from the obscurity of the dark doorway.
"You need have no fear of me," I called to her pleasantly. "You know me now, do you not?"
She made no answer; and I approached the doorway and stood peering into her face through the falling twilight. And for a moment I thought I had been mistaken; but it was she after all.
Yet now she wore neither the shabby chip hat with its soiled blue ribbon tied beneath her chin, nor any trace of hair powder, nor dotted kerchief cross-fastened at her breast and pinned with the withered rose.
And she seemed younger and slimmer and more childish than I had thought her, her bosom without its kerchief meagre or unformed, and her cheeks not painted either, but much burned by the July sun. Nor were her eyes black, as I had supposed, but a dark, clear grey with black lashes; and her unpowdered hair seemed to be a reddish-chestnut and scarce longer than my own, but more curly.
"Child," I said, smiling at her, I know not why, "I have been searching for you ever since I first saw you–"
And: "What do you want of me?" said she, scarce moving her lips.
"A favour."
"Best mount your cobbler's mare and go a-jogging back, my pretty lad."
The calm venom in her voice and her insolent grey eyes took me aback more than her saucy words.
"Doubtless," I said, "you have not recognized in me the officer who was at some slight pains to be of service–"
"What is it you desire?" said she, so rudely that I felt my face burn hot.
"See here, my lass," said I sharply, "you seem to misunderstand my errand here."
"And am like to," said she, "unless you make your errand short and plainer—though I have learned that the errands which bring such men as you to me are not too easily misunderstood."
"Such men as I–"
"You and your friend with the bold, black eyes. Ask him how much change he had of me when he came back."
"I did not know he had seen you again," said I, still redder. And saw that she believed me not.
"Birds sing; men lie," said she. "So if–"
"Be silent! Do you hear!" I cut her short with such contempt that I saw the painful colour whip her cheeks and her eyes quiver.
Small doubt that what she had learned of men had not sweetened her nor taught her confidence. But whatever she had been, and whatever she was, after all concerned not me that I should take pains to silence her so brutally.
"I am sorry I spoke as I did," said I, "—however mistaken you are concerning my seeking you here."
She said nothing.
"Also," I added, with a sudden resurgance of bitterness that surprised myself, "my conduct earlier in your behalf might have led you to a wiser judgment."
"I am wise enough—after my own fashion," she said indifferently.
"Does a man save and then return to destroy?"
"Many a hunter has saved many a spotted fawn from wolf and fox—so he might kill it himself, one day."
"You do yourself much flattery, young woman," I said, so unpleasantly that again the hot colour touched her throat and brow.
"I reason as I have been taught," she said defiantly. "Doubtless you are self-instructed."
"No; men have taught me. You witnessed, I believe, one lesson. And your comrade gave me still another."
"I care to witness nothing," I said, furious; "far less desire to attempt your education. Is all plain now?"
"Your words are," she said, with quiet contempt.
"My words are one with my intention," said I, angrily; far in spite of my own indifference and contempt, hers was somehow arousing me with its separate sting hidden in every word she uttered. "And now," I continued, "all being plain and open between us, let me acquaint you with the sole object of my visit here to you."
She shrugged her shabby shoulders and waited, her eyes, her expression, her very attitude indifferent, yet dully watchful.
"You know the Sagamore, Mayaro?" I asked.
"You say so."
"Where is he to be found?" I continued patiently.
"Why do you desire to know?"
The drab was exasperating me, and I think I looked it, for the slightest curl of her sullen lips hinted a scornful smile.
"Come, come, my lass," said I, with all the patience I could still command, "there is a storm approaching, and I do not wish to get wet. Answer my civil question and I'll thank you and be off about my business. Where is this Sagamore to be found?"
"Why do you wish to know?"
"Because I desire to consult him concerning certain matters."
"What matters?"
"Matters which do not concern you!" I snapped out.
"Are you sure of that, pretty boy?"
"Am I sure?" I repeated, furious. "What do you mean? Will you answer an honest question or not?"
"Why do you desire to see this Sagamore?" she repeated so obstinately that I fairly clenched my teeth.
"Answer me," I said. "Or had you rather I fetched a file of men up here?"
"Fetch a regiment, and I shall tell you nothing unless I choose."
"Good God, what folly!" I exclaimed. "For whom and for what do you take me, then, that you refuse to answer the polite and harmless question of an American officer!"
"You had not so named yourself."
"Very well, then; I am Euan Loskiel, Ensign in Morgan's rifle regiment!"
"You say so."
"Do you doubt it?"
"Birds sing," she said. Suddenly she stepped from the dark doorway, came to where I stood, bent forward and looked me very earnestly in the eyes—so closely that something—her nearness—I know not what—seemed to stop my heart and breath for a second.
Then, far on the western hills lightning glimmered; and after a long while it thundered.
"Do you wish me to find this Sagamore for you?" she asked very quietly.
"Will you do so?"
A drop of rain fell; another, which struck her just where the cheek curved under the long black lashes, fringing them with brilliancy like tears.
"Where do you lodge?" she asked, after a silent scrutiny of me.
"This night I am a guest at Major Lockwood's. Tomorrow I travel north again with my comrade, Lieutenant Boyd."
She was looking steadily at me all the time; finally she said:
"Somehow, I believe you to be a friend to liberty. I know it—somehow."
"It is very likely, in this rifle dress I wear," said I smiling.
"Yet a man may dress as he pleases."
"You mistrust me for a spy?"
"If you are, why, you are but one more among many hereabouts. I think you have not been in Westchester very long. It does not matter. No boy with the face you wear was born to betray anything more important than a woman."
I turned hot and scarlet with chagrin at her cool presumption—and would not for worlds have had her see how the impudence stung and shamed me.
For a full minute she stood there watching me; then:
"I ask pardon," she said very gravely.
And somehow, when she said it I seemed to experience a sense of inferiority—which was absurd and monstrous, considering what she doubtless was.
It had now begun to rain in very earnest; and was like to rain harder ere the storm passed. My clothes being my best, I instinctively stepped into the doorway; and, of a sudden, she was there too, barring my entry, flushed and dangerous, demanding the reason of my intrusion.
"Why," said I astonished, "may I not seek shelter from a storm in a ruined sugar-house, without asking by your leave?"
"This sap-house is my own dwelling!" she said hotly. "It is where I live!"
"Oh, Lord," said I, bewildered, "—if you are like to take offense at everything I say, or look, or do, I'll find a hospitable tree somewhere–"
"One moment, sir–"
"Well?"
She stood looking at me in the doorway, then slowly dropped her eyes, and in the same law voice I had heard once before:
"I ask your pardon once again," she said. "Please to come inside—and close the door. An open door draws lightning."
It was already drawing the rain in violent gusts.
The thunder began to bang with that metallic and fizzling tone which it takes on when the bolts fall very near; flash after flash of violet light illuminated the shack at intervals, and the rafters trembled as the black shadows buried us.
"Have you a light hereabout?" I asked.
"No,"
For ten minutes or more the noise of the storm made it difficult to hear or speak. I could scarce see her now in the gloom. And so we waited there in silence until the roar of the rain began to die away, and it slowly grew lighter outside and the thunder grew more distant.
I went to the door, looked out into the dripping woods, and turned to her.
"When will you bring the Sagamore to me?" I demanded.
"I have not promised."
"But you will?"
She waited a while, then:
"Yes, I will bring him."
"When?"
"Tonight."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"And if it rains again''
"It will rain all night, but I shall send you the Sagamore. Best go, sir. The real tempest is yet to break. It hangs yonder above the Hudson. But you have time to gain the Lockwood House."
I said to her, with a slight but reassuring smile, most kindly intended:
"Now that I am no longer misunderstood by you, I may inform you that in what you do for me you serve our common country." It did not seem a pompous speech to me.
"If I doubted that," she said, "I had rather pass the knife you wear around my throat than trouble myself to oblige you."
Her words, and the quiet, almost childish voice, seemed so oddly at variance that I almost laughed; but changed my mind.
"I should never ask a service of you for myself alone," I said so curtly that the next moment I was afraid I had angered her, and fearing she might not keep her word to me, smiled and frankly offered her my hand.
Very slowly she put forth her own—a hand stained and roughened, but slim and small. And so I went away through the dripping bush, and down the rocky hill. A slight sense of fatigue invaded me; and I did not then understand that it came from my steady and sustained efforts to ignore what any eyes could not choose but see—this young girl's beauty—yes, despite her sorry mien and her rags—a beauty that was fashioned to trouble men; and which was steadily invading my senses whether I would or no.
Walking along the road and springing over the puddles, I thought to myself that it was small wonder such a wench was pestered in a common soldier's camp. For she had about her everything to allure the grosser class—a something—indescribable perhaps—but which even such a man as I had become unwillingly aware of. And I must have been very conscious of it, for it made me restless and vaguely ashamed that I should condescend so far as even to notice it. More than that, it annoyed me not a little that I should bestow any thought upon this creature at all; but what irritated me most was that Boyd had so demeaned himself as to seek her out behind my back.
When I came to the manor house, it had already begun to rain again; and even as I entered the house, a tempest of rain and wind burst once more over the hills with a violence I had scarcely expected.
Encountering Major Lockwood and Lieutenant Boyd in the hall, I scowled at the latter askance, but remembered my manners, and smoothed my face and told them of my success.
"Rain or no," said I, "she has promised me to send this Sagamore here tonight. And I am confident she will keep her word."
"Which means," said Boyd, with an unfeigned sigh, "that we travel north tomorrow. Lord! How sick am I of saddle and nag and the open road. Your kindly hospitality, Major, has already softened me so that I scarce know how to face the wilderness again."
And at supper, that evening, Boyd frankly bemoaned his lot, and Mrs. Lockwood condoled with him; but Betsy Hunt turned up her pretty nose, declaring that young men were best off in the woods, which kept them out o' mischief. She did not know the woods.
And after supper, as she and my deceitful but handsome lieutenant lingered by the stairs, I heard her repeat it again, utterly refusing to say she was sorry or that she commiserated his desperate lot. But on her lips hovered a slight and provoking smile, and her eyes were very brilliant under her powdered hair.
All women liked Boyd; none was insensible to his charm. Handsome, gay, amusing—and tender, alas!—too often—few remained indifferent to this young man, and many there were who found him difficult to forget after he had gone his careless way. But I was damning him most heartily for the prank he played me.
I sat in the parlour talking to Mrs. Lockwood. The babies were long since in bed; the elder children now came to make their reverences to their mother and father, and so very dutifully to every guest. A fat black woman in turban and gold ear-hoops fetched them away; and the house seemed to lose a trifle of its brightness with the children's going.
Major Lockwood sat writing letters on a card-table, a cluster of tall candles at his elbow; Mr. Hunt was reading; his wife and Boyd still lingered on the stairs, and their light, quick laughter sounded prettily at moments.
Mrs. Lockwood, I remember, had been sewing while she and I conversed together. The French alliance was our topic; and she was still speaking of the pleasure it had given all when Lewis Morris brought to her house young Lafayette. Then, of a sudden, she turned her head sharply, as though listening.
Through the roar of the storm I thought I heard the gallop of a horse. Major Lockwood lifted his eyes from his letters, fixing them on the rain-washed window.
Certainly a horseman had now pulled up at our very porch; Mr. Hunt laid aside his book very deliberately and walked to the parlour door, and a moment later the noise of the metal knocker outside rang loudly through the house.
We were now all rising and moving out into the hall, as though a common instinct of coming trouble impelled us. The black servant opened; a drenched messenger stood there, blinking in the candle light.
Major Lockwood went to him instantly, and drew him in the door; and they spoke together in low and rapid tones.
Mrs. Lockwood murmured in my ear:
"It's one of Luther's men. There is bad news for us from below, I warrant you."
We heard the Major say:
"You will instantly acquaint Colonels Thomas and Sheldon with this news. Tell Captain Fancher, too, in passing."
The messenger turned away into the storm, and Major Lockwood called after him:
"Is there no news of Moylan's regiment?"
"None, sir," came the panting answer; there ensued a second's silence, a clatter of slippery hoofs, then only the loud, dull roar of the rain filled the silence.
The Major, who still stood at the door, turned around and glanced at his wife.
"What is it, dear—if we may know?" asked she, quite calmly.
"Yes," he said, "you should know, Hannah. And it may not be true, but—somehow, I think it is. Tarleton is out."
