Clotilde, with a sinking heart, saw him go out, but she felt no lessening of her determination. She began to see that these men were members of a British force, come at Andrew Shadwell’s call to guard the Tories out of the country. Suppose they should meet that little company of Colonial soldiers, what could result but utter disaster for the Americans? They were encamped so near, they were so few in number, the situation looked very desperate to her whirling mind. There was a chance that she might slip out and run through the snow to warn them. As the thought came to her she made an involuntary movement toward the back door of the cottage. But the watchful Merton’s sharp little eyes divined her purpose quickly.
“Think not to befool a British soldier so easily as that,” he mocked as, with one stride, he stepped between her and the door. He tried the lock, found it already fastened and grinned with satisfaction as he withdrew the key. “We will have no slipping out in that direction,” he said firmly. “Now tell me where dwells Andrew Shadwell, and his gang of Loyalists, as they call themselves. Is it in the next house, or street, or town? Come, speak up, I say.”
As she stood, her hand clutching the back of the big chair to steady herself, Clotilde wondered if he could see how she was trembling. She was scarcely able to control her voice but she managed, by a mighty effort to keep it from shaking as she answered:
“I will tell you nothing.”
She swallowed chokily with a dry throat, but she turned her head away and gazed indifferently into the fire. Her action put the final touch to Merton’s fury.
“We will see as to that!” he said.
“Here, what is this?” cried a new voice suddenly at the door.
The young officer who entered was dark-cloaked like the others, but trimmer, straighter and of a more commanding presence. Clotilde gave him one startled look and then glanced, almost without knowing it, up at the portrait of Master Simon that still hung above the mantel. How like the officer’s eyes were to those in the picture and to Stephen Sheffield’s. She remembered Miles’ saying of:
“There is no blue like Sheffield blue!”
This, then, was the man who had saved her comrade in Boston, the same that she had seen upon that early morning at the crossroads, riding past like whirlwind on his great, grey horse.