“Jerry,” he explained in a conversational tone, “he jined the Loyal Tennesseans over yander in White County.”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder westward, and one of the men said that he had known Jerry since he was “knee-high ter a duck.”
In a strained, unnatural tone Jack Bixby laboriously read on.
“‘Little Ben prays at night fur you. He prayed some last night out’n his own head. He said he prayed the good Lord would deliver daddy from all harm.’”
The man’s eyes were glistening. He laughed hurriedly, but he coughed, too, and the comrade who knew Jerry at so minute a size seemed also acquainted with little Ben, and said a “pearter young one” had never stepped. “‘He prayed the good Lord would deliver daddy from all harm,’” Jack Bixby solemnly repeated as he folded the letter. And silence fell upon the group.
Hilary, strangely softened, was turning—he was quietly slipping away from the window when he became suddenly aware that there were other stealthy figures in the square, and he saw through the frosty panes the scared face of the sentry bursting into the doorway with a tardy alarm.
There was a rush from the square. Pistol shots rang out sharp on the chill air, and the one-armed man, conscious of his helpless plight, entrapped in the mêlée, fled as best he might through the familiar intricacies of the old hotel—up the stairs, through echoing halls and rooms, and down a long corridor, till he paused panting and breathless in the door of the old ball-room.
The rude, unplastered, whitewashed walls were illumined by the moonlight, for all down one side of the long apartment the windows overlooking the gorge were full of the white radiance, and in glittering squares it lay upon the floor.
He remembered suddenly that there was no other means of egress. To be found here was certain capture. As he turned to retrace his way he heard swift steps approaching. Guided by the sound of his flight one of the surprised party had followed him, lured by the hope of escape.