A sharp rap on the door interrupted her, and without waiting a response the room was entered by two or three British soldiers. “We demand that you give up the deserter who has taken refuge here,” said the foremost one.
“No deserter is here,” replied Lettice, steadily.
“I must beg leave to contradict you,” said the man, looking admiringly at the girl so fair and slight in her black frock.
“I speak the truth,” she returned. “You are at liberty to search the premises. Look for yourselves.”
“We must press you and your maid into our service,” said the man. “Here, you wench,” he turned to Lutie, “go with your mistress and show us where the man is hidden.” He drew his pistol and touched the cold muzzle to Lutie’s temple. The girl gave a stifled scream, and Lettice grew paler.
“You may use whatever force you choose, but you will not succeed in finding any one hidden here,” she said. “I have three brothers; one left us something like a week ago—”
“To join your wretched militia, I suppose, and that makes this place our property. We are ordered to spare only non-combatants and their possessions. Help yourselves, boys. Well, miss, the others, where are they?”
“My eldest brother has gone to join the younger.”
“Then it is the third we want. Hand him over. Where is he?”
“Lying in our little graveyard,” Lettice answered brokenly, “slain by one of your bullets. He who had never done wrong to friend or enemy lies there.” She covered her face with her hands, and sobs shook her.