She worked on busily, so absorbed in the finishing of her task that she had no thought of time. She was singing a little song to herself as she pressed the treadle and flung the shuttle back and forth, she was thinking of Stephen who must be already on his way back from Boston, she was thinking of Miles in his little wind-swept, bark-roofed hut at Valley Forge.
At last she brought her weaving to an end, cut off the length of cloth that she needed and was climbing down from her seat holding the great roll in her arms. She was still singing her little song when, she scarcely knew why, she stopped in the middle of a word with a sudden catching at her throat.
“It is nothing. It is nothing. Why should I be afraid?” she said to herself over and over again.
None the less her heart was beating so loud that it almost drowned the slight noise of footsteps in the snow outside the door, and the sound of a hand fumbling at the latch.
CHAPTER XVII
PRISONER OF WAR
The man who pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold was not, after all, of so very terrible an aspect, at least so Clotilde sought to reassure herself. His high boots were caked with mud and snow and his big grey cloak was gathered close about him. His voice, when he addressed her was gruff and heavy, although it appeared to be with an effort and in spite of breathless impatience that he managed to speak quietly.
“Can you tell me, little Mistress,” he said, “where a man named Andrew Shadwell bides?”
“Why, yes,” replied Clotilde readily, much relieved by his peaceable tone, “he lives in the next—”
She stopped abruptly. The man had chanced to lift his arm, showing, under his cloak, a braided cuff and a strip of scarlet sleeve. A British soldier—and here!