Suddenly the soldier in command stopped in front of Patience’s chair and laid a heavy hand on her little bare, brown arm. He spoke, and the words were full of anger.
“Enough of this nonsense! Give me the key, I say. I will have it!”
“‘GIVE ME THE KEY I SAY’”
Patience slipped out of her chair and down to the floor, holding her sampler, covering the hidden key, as high as the man’s eyes. He loosed his grasp upon her arm, looking at her in wonder. Such a little lass, in her straight blue frock, and not as tall as his own little girl in England. She had the same soft eyes, though, and the same low, sweet voice.
“I would gladly give you what you wish, sir,” she began bravely, “but I promised my mother I would deliver the key to no one until she returned. Look!” She held the sampler still higher. “I am stitching my name. Is it not a stupid task on such a pretty day?”
“A soft answer turneth away wrath.” The man read the text at the top of the sampler. Then he looked out of the window and farther than the apple trees.
“It is indeed neatly stitched, little lass,” he said. “My own Elizabeth is even now making her sampler, and wetting it with tears until I return to her, overseas.”
He gave a quick command to his men, who filed down the stairs, empty handed, and into the garden. Then he raised his hat in salute, and followed them as they marched slowly down the road and farther than Patience could see.
“My little girl—my Patience—are you safe?”