Then I dashed once more across the green lawn of the Braes and drew my sword hilt across the shutter.
There was a stir in the room above me; the shutter was cautiously opened and I was covered by the muzzle of a pistol.
"Who are you?" demanded a voice which I knew to be Charles Gordon's.
"James Frisby of Fairlee," I replied. "I have ridden to warn you, Mr. Gordon. You have only a few minutes to escape in; James Rodolph, with a hundred men behind him, will be here in ten minutes."
"Thank you, lad, for the information. I will give them a warm reception."
"But you cannot hold the Braes against a hundred men; they will burn you out, and then Mistress Jean."
"Hum; that is so, lad. Ride round to the rear of the house."
I did so, and a moment later, they came out on the little porch. The old gentleman had buckled on his sword, and there were pistols in his belt. And she, ah! she never looked more bewitching. Her beautiful hair flowed wild about her shoulders, over the light dark mantle in which she was wrapped. By the flicker of the candle, I saw that a bright flush mantled her cheek, as she spoke rapidly.
"Father, there is an English vessel a few miles down the bay. Call the slaves and escape to it."
"But I cannot take you there."