"Not yet," I replied.
She stood as if waiting for whatever else I had to say; but my tongue for the moment was tied.
"If they do?" she said as if to question me.
"Heaven help us!"
"Come," she cried with some asperity, "don't stand there staring like a gaby! Tell me everything. Have not I a right to know?"
"If you wish," I replied, stung by the scorn in her voice. "The chances are that, if we are caught, some of us will hang. Which of us and how many, is a debatable question."
She thought it over calmly. "That is probably true. I think, however, that I shall have something to say about which ones will hang."
That was a phase of the matter which had not occurred to me. It gave me a good deal of relief, until I met her eyes regarding me still scornfully, and realized what an exhibition of myself I was making. I had been assertive enough hitherto, and I had not lacked confidence where females were concerned; I remembered well the one who so long before had come into my uncle's store in Topham, and how Arnold had smiled at the scorn that I had accorded her. But this young lady somehow was different. She had a fine, quiet dignity that seemed always to appraise me with cool precision. She had shown, once at least, a flash of humor that indicated how lightly, in less tragic circumstances, she could take light things. Now and then she had dealt a keen thrust that cut me by its truth.
And yet she treated me kindly enough, too. She had seemed almost glad to have me at her side when we ran together from the mission.
"Mistress—" I began; then stopped and clumsily stammered, "I—I don't know your name."