“Lads, there’s promotion in this!” shouted the thick-set man I had tumbled on (who, it seem’d, was the sergeant in the troop): “hand me the letter, there! Zacchaeus Martin and Tom Pine—you two bide here on duty: t’other three fall in about the prisoners—quick march!’ The wicked have digged a pit—’”
The rogue ended up with a tag from the Psalmist.
We were march’d down the road for a mile or more, till we heard a loud bawling, as of a man in much bodily pain, and soon came to a small village, where, under a tavern lamp, by the door, was a man perch’d up on a tub, and shouting forth portions of the Scripture to some twenty or more green-coats assembled round. Our conductor pushed past these, and enter’d the tavern. At a door to the left in the passage he halted, and knocking once, thrust us inside.
The room was bare and lit very dimly by two tallow candles, set in bottles. Between these, on a deal table, lay a map outspread, and over it a man was bending, who look’d up sharply at our entrance.
He was thin, with a blue nose, and wore a green uniform like the rest: only his carriage proved him a man of authority.
This Captain Stubbs listened, you may be sure, with a bright’ning eye to the sergeant’s story; and at the close fix’d an inquisitive gaze on the pair of us, turning the King’s letter over and over in his hands.
“How came this in your possession?” he ask’d at length.
“That,” said I, “I must decline to tell.”
He hesitated a moment; then, re-seating himself, broke the seal, spread the letter upon the map, and read it slowly through. For the first time I began heartily to hope that the paper contain’d nothing of moment. But the man’s face was no index of this. He read it through twice, folded it away in his breast, and turn’d to the sergeant—
“To-morrow at six in the morning we continue our march. Meanwhile keep these fellows secure. I look to you for this.”