The light of the conflagration had soon died away, and our wanderers pursued their solitary road in darkness, ignorant of the country through which they passed, and uncertain of the point to which they tended. A full hour had gone by in this state of suspense, and Robinson had once more resolved to make a halt, and encamp his party in the woods. Before, however, he could put this design into execution, he was unexpectedly challenged, from the road-side, with the military demand of—"Who goes there?"
"Travellers," was the reply.
"Where do you come from, and where are you going?"
"The first question I can answer," said Horse Shoe, "and that is, from Old Virginny, a fortnight ago, but, to-night, from a tolerable snug lodging, where some onmannerly fellows troubled our sleep. But as to where we're going, it's more likely you can tell that for us."
"You are saucy, sir."
"It's more than I meant to be," replied the sergeant. "Mayhap you mought have hearn of a man they call Bloody Spur?"
"He has pricked your pillows for you—has he? Dick Peyton is good at that," said a second questioner.
"Aha, comrades, I understand you now," said Horse Shoe, with alacrity. "Dick Peyton and Bob Wingate both belong to your party. Am I right? We are friends to Marion."
"And therefore friends to us," said the patrole. "Your name, sir, and the number you have in company?"
"Take us to the general, and we will answer that," replied Horse Shoe. "The Tories have set upon Wingate's house and burnt it to the ground. It's like we may be able to tell something worth hearing at head-quarters. Your man Bloody Spur gave us in charge to report him, and to say that he would soon follow upon our track. I wonder that he isn't here before now."