The sound of his voice reached Mark’s ears, but not the substance of the words.
“What was that?” said the young Tory, his face paling slightly. But Lucy gazed steadfastly away and did not answer.
“Did you not hear something like a voice?”
She made no reply; he listened for a moment and then went half-way down the broad stone steps that led to the veranda, and looked about searchingly. Tom flattened himself against the wall of the house; the thick, odorous runners of the vine hung in a heavy screen before him, effectually hiding him from Mark’s prying eyes. At length the latter returned to the veranda, but his suspicions were aroused, and he looked at Lucy from under his frowning brows.
“Did you hear a voice?” inquired he.
But still she did not answer; he bit his lip vexedly, then laughed.
“Do you know,” said he, “when I stood just inside the door there, before coming out, I heard voices. Who were you talking to?”
“I was talking to myself,” said Lucy, truthfully.
“A likely story,” he sneered. “However, if there is any one lurking about here I’ll beat him out like a rabbit.” He turned to the door and paused with his hand upon the catch. “And, by the way, Miss Lucy,” he continued, “you need not trouble yourself to warn your friend the rebel, if there is one near at hand; for it will do no good. We’ll catch him if he were as elusive as the Swamp-Fox, himself.”
Then the door closed behind him; Lucy with her breath catching in sobs of fright, sprang down the steps.