“I have laid no trap!” he answered; “and I have not been a party to the laying of one. I do not expect you to believe me, for I see that you have made up your mind to think the worst of me. But even if I were seeking to snare your brother, would I be anything like as false as he?” She seemed about to make answer, but he waved it back. “I, at least, would be working for truth and the cause I’d sworn to uphold, while he——”
Her laughter interrupted him. “You!” she cried. “You working for truth! You upholding a cause because you had sworn to do so!”
It was with great difficulty that he kept back the bitter words that came to his lips; but he felt that his resentment had already caused him to go too far. So he remained silent.
She stood looking at him as though expecting him to reply; but as he did not do so, she went on:
“Because you have overheard my brother just now, you think there is nothing to be said in his defense. But you are wrong. There is this. No matter what his words may have been,” and again she bent toward him, “he is as free of wrong as you are.”
George was about to make a reply, when suddenly there came a smothered crash of shots from some little distance away, mingled with excited shouts and cries of pain. Instantly he threw the door open, and as he ran out he was aware that Peggy had extinguished the candle. The tavern was a bedlam of sound; rapid shots were being exchanged within.
Through the open windows and doors of the building men were springing, followed by others who were grappling with them and bearing them to the ground. But one, an active and speedy runner, gained the outside without mishap and raced away from the inn, a half dozen pursuers at his heels. With a leap of the heart George knew him as Herbert Camp, and though he wanted to have nothing to do with his taking, duty was plain before him.
“He’s a self-confessed traitor,” muttered the youth, “and I am bound to bring him down if I can.”
With the tavern lights behind him, young Camp could be made out with more or less plainness; and he was headed directly toward the abandoned mill. As he drew near, George Prentiss gathered himself for an effort; the scattering slugs from the heavy pistols of those in pursuit sputtered and hummed about him, but he did not flinch. The fugitive had reached a point a dozen yards away when the young New Englander made his contemplated rush. However, he had not gone more than a few steps when he felt his foot grasped strongly; and down he went at full length upon the ground.
What followed was rather confused; a half dozen or more colonials ran by and over him. A few paused to drag him to his feet and disarm him. Then he heard Nat Brewster’s voice call out: