“They are coming this way,” said Mr. Buckley, almost mournfully, as the sound of voices could now be plainly heard from the cozy kitchen.
“We are in your hands,” said Watson, calmly. He turned to the minister.
“You are fighting against my country, which I love more dearly than life itself,” answered Mr. Buckley. “I can have no sympathy for you!” His face was very white; there was a troubled look in his kindly eyes.
“But they will be hung, father!” cried the blue-eyed daughter.
“I’m ashamed of you, Rachel,” said Miss Cynthia. Mrs. Buckley said nothing. She seemed to be struggling with a hundred conflicting emotions. Waggie ran to her, as if he considered her a friend, and put his forepaws on her dress.
“Are you going to give us up?” asked Watson.
“I am a loyal Southerner,” returned the minister, very slowly, “and I know what my duty is. Why should I shield you?”
Watson turned to George.
“It was bound to come,” he said. “It might as well be to-night as to-morrow, or the next day.” The pursuers were almost at the door.
“All right,” said George, pluckily.