“At high noon to-morrow. We have a coach with good springs and can secure relays of horses. Two days should see us at home, if nothing unforeseen turns up.”
“I think,” spoke the dragoon, “that you do well to leave New York so soon. There is no telling, now, when all the roads will be closed and Lord Howe’s guns roaring havoc across the city.”
“That would not drive me out,” stated the Tory merchant, “if it were not for Peggy. Indeed, gentlemen, it would please me greatly to stay and see the end of this uprising.”
“You think, then, that it will end here?”
“I never was more convinced of anything in my life. The governmental officers are determined to efface the stain put upon them at Boston, and that they will do it is a certainty.”
Here the talk drifted away into the field of politics; the merchant did most of it, and he did it heatedly and most eloquently. The time went by and the storm seemed to increase. By ten o’clock Peggy begged leave to retire, as she had some tasks to perform against the journey on the morrow. George lingered on and on in the hope that she would return to the drawing-room; but she did not.
It was close to midnight when he at last arose to take his leave.
“What!” cried Mr. Camp. “In such a drenching downfall as this? Never, sir. You’ll be wet through. I have a room for each of you, and you shall all three remain and take breakfast with me—my last in New York under rebel rule, at least.”
George Prentiss did not protest against this with any great vehemence; the wind and rain, and the thunder and lightning, though, had little to do with his agreeing to remain the merchant’s guest. It was very late when he, at the heels of Hyde and Henderson, and each bearing a lighted candle, mounted the wide staircase to their chambers. The flickering yellow light fell before and about them, but there were dark corners which remained heavy with shadow; and from one of these a pair of terror-filled eyes followed them; two trembling hands were upraised to hide a frightened girlish face.