Our friends had scarcely arrived in the narrow pass before they perceived on the hill in front of them, a company of some ten or fifteen horse, rapidly advancing towards them. In a moment all conversation was checked, and Harry Winter turning to his companions, had barely time to remark,
"I answer all questions: be silent, and if asked, swear to the truth of every word I say—steady: these fellows are Tories."
As he ceased speaking, the foremost of the strangers had already come up to them.
"Where from, and whither do you go?" asked Harry Winter, with a stern accent.
"From below Ninety-Six, and on our road to Fort Granby," replied a clownish voice.
"Peace, you knave!" interrupted one who appeared to be the leader of the party, and whose carriage and demeanor announced him to be an officer; "by what authority do you undertake to answer a challenge on the highway? Back, to your place, sir."
The rebuked rustic hung his head, as he reined his horse back into the crowd that now thronged the road.
"As we are of the larger party," said the same person, addressing himself to Winter, "we have the right to the word. Who are you and whence come you?"
"We belong to Floyd's new draft," replied Winter with great coolness, "and left Winnsborough yesterday morning."
"And where bound?"