For some time after he had gone, George sat upon a bench at an open window and stared out at the June night. The boy’s mind was full of vague trouble; there was something that stirred him strangely. Dully, he realized that it all concerned the prospective arrest of young Camp.
“But he is a traitor,” he told himself. “He deliberately broke his solemn oath to the colonies that he might be enriched with his uncle’s money. He is my cousin, but that he is to be shamed and made to suffer is just and right.”
But then there was Peggy. She had loved her brother and she no doubt continued to love him; she would also suffer, keenly, bitterly, pitifully. George realized that to the full.
“Girls always grieve and break their hearts over a weakling who has done evil and is made to pay,” he muttered, as he clasped his knees and stared out into the darkness. “And the nearer and dearer the criminal is to them, the greater the grief.”
That Herbert Camp was near and dear to his sister had been made evident.
“Did she not ride after him on that night at the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’” he said, “fearing that he would come to harm? And since then what has she not suffered, perhaps, because of him—in forebodings, in fear that he would be found out? For all I know, she has ridden after him more than once since, in the hope of safeguarding him. It may be that even to-night——”
Like a flash he was upon his feet.
“Peter!” he called, sharply. “Peter.”
A thick-set fellow, showing his Dutch descent plainly, lumbered into the room.
“Did you call?” he inquired, stolidly.