The beefy sergeant and a number of his men were grouped outside; in their midst was a burly figure with a face blood-clotted, a shirt-frill crimson and with the bearing of one about to sink down from exhaustion. His legs seemed to sag beneath him; his big head weakly swayed from side to side; his hands pawed at the Hessians in an effort to hold himself erect.
“Slade!” exclaimed George, under his breath. And as he said it, he stepped back from the window, drawing Peggy away also. “He’s slipped out of the things I tied him up with.”
“Does he suspect anything, do you think?” whispered the girl. “Did he hear what we said as we talked by the fire?”
“Perhaps.”
“And he’s here to give warning.” She drew in her breath in a great frightened gasp, and her eyes were fixed upon the blood-smeared man swaying so weakly in the snow.
“Colonel Rahl!” they heard him say. “Colonel Rahl!”
“Well, what about him?” demanded the fat sergeant, waving away the pawing hands.
“I must see him—at once.”
The sergeant laughed. His men, who understood almost no English, looked at Slade with stolid indifference.
“You must see him,” said the sergeant “Plenty peoples think the same as yourself to-night.” He waved a hand. “Poof! Get away!”