Watson saw that the time of concealment had passed. His identity was apparent; he was in the very centre of the enemy’s country; his life hung in the balance. He could not even defend himself save by his hands, for the pistol which he carried in his hip-pocket had been rendered temporarily useless by his passage across the river. Even if he had possessed a whole brace of pistols, he would not have harmed one hair of this kindly minister’s head.
“I am a Northerner,” said Watson, “and I am one of the men who stole a train at Big Shanty this morning. We got within a few miles of Chattanooga, and then had to abandon our engine, because we were trapped. We tried to burn bridges, but we failed. We did no more than any Southerners would have done in the North under the same circumstances.”
It was at this point that George awoke. He saw at once that something was wrong but he prudently held his tongue, and listened.
“You are a spy,” reiterated Miss Cynthia, “and you know what the punishment for that must be—North or South!”
“Of course I know the punishment,” said Watson, with deliberation. “A scaffold—and a piece of rope.”
The minister shuddered. “They wouldn’t hang the boy, would they?” asked his wife anxiously.
Mr. Buckley was about to answer, when Miss Cynthia suddenly cried, “Listen!”
Her sharp ears had detected some noise outside the house. She left the room, ran to the front door, and was back again in a minute.
“Some of the neighbors are out with dogs and lanterns, looking, I’m sure, for the spies,” she announced excitedly, “and they are coming up the lane!”
The first impulse of Watson was to seize George, and run from the house. But he realized, the next instant, how useless this would be; he could even picture the boy being shot down by an overwhelming force of pursuers.