“Well?” he demanded sharply as she paused. “Where does he dwell?”
“I will not tell you,” returned Clotilde with spirit. “I have no information for a soldier of King George.”
The man stepped forward with an angry exclamation, but was interrupted by the entry of one of his comrades. This second visitor she recognised at once as the Governor’s messenger who had sat by Stephen Sheffield’s fire and talked to her of the coming of the war. He, for the moment, seemed to have no recollection of their previous meeting.
“Well, Merton,” questioned the newcomer, “have you any information? The Captain says that if you can find out nothing, you are to come on at once, since delay is worse than ignorance of the road. That rascal of a half-breed pedlar is here without; he insists that we can get news at this cottage, although he fears, for some reason, to come in himself.”
“I could get information enough if only this obstinate maid would speak,” replied the other. “It remains but to be seen how quickly I can persuade her.”
He seized Clotilde roughly by the arm and, dropping all pretence of friendliness, cried in a voice that struck terror to her heart:
“Now, young Mistress, will you tell or shall I make you?”
With a convulsive effort, Clotilde jerked herself free.
“No!” she cried, undaunted.
“Come,” remonstrated Merton’s companion, “do the girl no harm; it is no part of a soldier’s duty to bully a woman. Wait, I will bring the Captain to question her.”