A man's voice, thick and husky, made some indistinct reply.
'Lizabeth fixed the cap more securely on her pistol, and called again—
"Who's there?"
"What the devil—" began the voice.
'Lizabeth shot back the bolt and lifted the latch.
"If you'd said at once 'twas William come back, you'd ha' been let in sooner," she said quietly.
A thin puff of rain floated against her face as the door opened, and a tall soldier stepped out of the darkness into the glow of the warm kitchen.
"Well, this here's a queer home-coming. Why, hullo, 'Lizabeth—with a pistol in your hand, too! Do you shoot the fatted calf in these parts now? What's the meaning of it?"
The overcoat of cinder grey that covered his scarlet tunic was powdered with beads of moisture; his black moustaches were beaded also; his face was damp, and smeared with the dye that trickled from his sodden cap. As he stood there and shook himself, the rain ran down and formed small pools upon the slates around his muddy boots.
He was a handsome fellow, in a florid, animal fashion; well-set, with black curls, dark eyes that yet contrived to be exceedingly shallow, and as sanguine a pair of cheeks as one could wish to see. It seemed to 'Lizabeth that the red of his complexion had deepened since she saw him last, while the white had taken a tinge of yellow, reminding her of the prize beef at the Christmas market last week. Somehow she could find nothing to say.