“Mr. Neal, come and help us.”
He recognised Una’s voice and then that of the Comtesse. He had no time to think what they wanted or how they came to be crouching in a damp ditch in the rain while the evening darkened over them. He leaped from the bank, crossed the road, and raced off again towards his father’s house.
He arrived at the door, breathless, but sure that he was in good time. He burst into the sitting-room and found his father and uncle, their lamp already lighted, bending over a pile of papers which lay before them on the table.
“The soldiers, the yeomen, are on their way here,” he gasped.
Micah Ward started to his feet.
“What do you say?”
“The yeomen are on their way to the meetinghouse. They are going to search for arms, for cannon, which they say are concealed there.”
Micah Ward stood stock still. His body seemed to have become suddenly rigid. His face grew quite white. Donald, leaning back in his chair, smiled slightly.
“So,” he said, “they have begun. Are there cannon there, brother?”
“Yes, there are,” said Micah, slowly. “Four six-pounders. They belonged to the Volunteers. We kept them. We thought they might be useful some day.”