“You see,” said Nat. “I was right.”
“And I was wrong,” answered the other. “I was wrong from the beginning. But,” with a sudden lift of the head, “they have not yet reached the end. Chesbrook and some others deceived me shamefully up to this. But at Concord I’ll try to prove to them that they can do so no longer.”
“Come, then,” said Nat, briefly. “Here is the road. In a little while the British will be once more on the march.”
The two lads faced the way to Concord and went off at a long, swinging lope. The pace was not a hard one, but it took them swiftly over the ground. They had covered some two of the six miles when figures were seen ahead in the uncertain early light of the April morning.
“Halt!” rang out a sharp voice. They saw the long barrel of a rifle poked out from behind a tree at the wayside and cover them. But only for a moment. Then there was a sharp exclamation, the muzzle was lowered and a form leaped into the road.
“George!” cried a voice.
“Ezra!” replied Nat’s companion; and the next instant the two brothers stood with clasped hands, looking into each other’s eyes. But after a moment Ezra turned to Nat.
“Now,” said he, gravely. “You understand?”
Nat held out his hand.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, simply, as they shook hands. “But,” as the thought came to him, “why did you not explain it all when you saw that I suspected you?”