Lawton soon learned that it was teeming with the real amber-colored juice of the grape, and had been sent from the Locusts, as an offering to Major Dunwoodie, from his friend Captain Wharton, of the royal army.
The group within were all young men and tried soldiers; in number they were about a dozen, and their manners and their conversation were a strange mixture of the bluntness of the partisan with the manners of gentlemen. Some were endeavoring to sleep on the benches which lined the walls, some were walking the apartments, and others were seated in earnest discussion on subjects connected with the business of their lives. All this time Dunwoodie sat by himself, gazing at the fire, and lost in reflections which none of his officers presumed to disturb.
A loud summons at the door of the building, and the dragoons instinctively caught up their arms to be prepared for the worst.
The door was opened and the Skinners entered, dragging the peddler, bending beneath the load of his pack.
“Which is Captain Lawton?” said the leader of the gang, gazing around him in some little astonishment.
“He waits your pleasure,” said the trooper, dryly.
“Then here I deliver to your hands a condemned traitor; this is Harvey Birch, the peddler spy.”
Lawton started as he looked his old acquaintance in the face, and turning to the Skinner with a lowering look, he asked:
“And who are you, sir, that speak so freely of your neighbors? But,” bowing to Dunwoodie, “your pardon, sir; here is the commanding officer; to him you will please address yourself.”