“More than likely a lanthorn,” said young Prentiss.
They paused and watched the glimmer of light; little by little it drew nearer. The bearer of the lanthorn apparently had great trouble in making his way along, for his pace was very slow.
“He’s plowing through the drifts,” said George. “There must be open fields in the direction from which he’s coming.”
But at last the stranger struck the road, and his pace increased; in a very little time they could hear his feet crunching the snow, then they caught the growling undertone of angry words.
“So there are two of them,” whispered Nat.
“No; he’s talking to himself.”
Nearer came the light bearer; and they could now distinguish what he said.
“That I should live to see the day,” he mumbled. “That I should live to see an English king send such a horde of rascally dogs down upon his people. Dogs, did I say? They’d shame the name of dogs; a decent cur would not own them.”
Grumbling and stamping in the snow he passed them unnoticed, a stout figure in a heavy cloak and with a broad woolen scarf bound over his hat, adown his ears and knotted under his chin. A little distance away they saw the light halt, then came the rattling of a lock and chain and the door of a low barn-like structure creaked open. The man set his lamp down within, stamped the snow from his feet and then closed the door. At once George began making his way toward the building; but Nat took him by the arm.
“What are you going to do?”