Not a word spake good Parson Kendall while Sally told her story.
Goodwife Kendall knew that Sally had returned, but so discreet a tongue had she, that not even her sisters knew that the whereabouts of the maiden who had appeared neither at the breakfast nor the dinner table were unknown either to the parson or his wife.
There was silence as Maid Sally finished her strange, brave story.
Was her best friend, the kind parson, angry at what she had done? Would he blame her sharply, or cry shame on so bold a deed?
A queer note there was in his voice when he spoke at last.
"I am proud of thee, maid, proud of thee! Thou art fit to rank with the soldiers who would put down injustice and oppression. But why aid the young son of Sir Percival Grandison, why he in particular, eh?"
For a moment it was Sally's turn to be silent. Then she said, with her steadfast eyes on the parson's face:
"I have told you, sir, what floated to my ears. It was the first case wherein I bethought me that my own courage might serve my country in a way, and serve one of her sons, too."
Parson Kendall was content with the reply.
"We worried over thee this morn," he said, "and have made quiet inquiries to-day, but all without letting any one know thou hadst really disappeared. Do not so try us again."