So, hand in hand, the two little things ran out under the archway, and over to the guard-house beyond. Not unnoticed, however; for though they were not seen by their own friends, they were by some acquaintances, who were driving past at the moment, and who, fearing that they might be run over by the constantly passing carriages, or fall into some other mischief, told Colonel Rush’s servants to see after the children. One of the men called his master, and the Colonel speedily followed the little runaways.
They made for the grated door, with what purpose Bessie hardly knew herself, save that there was kindness in her heart for the poor prisoners; but, as they reached it, the guard or “soldier-policeman,” as Bessie called him, stopped them by crossing his musket in their way.
Belle was frightened,—partly by this, partly by the two or three astonished faces that peeped at them through the bars,—and would have drawn back, but Bessie stood her ground, and, looking up at the guard with her innocent, serious eyes, said,—
“We only want to speak to the poor shut-up soldiers.”
The man shook his head.
“It’s against the rules, miss,” he said.
“But I’m not in rules,” said Bessie. “I don’t live here you know, and I think I might do it. If you were in prison you would like some one to coax you to be good: wouldn’t you?”
The soldier looked at her in astonished silence; but his gun still barred the way.
“You’ll let them out, won’t you?” she went on with pleading voice and eyes: “you’ll let them out so they can come in there where there is such sweet music, and it is all nice and bright? I think they are sorry now.”