I was astounded. I confess it even after all that had happened—but she had fired at Whitestone before; now she was firing at me. I would stop this fierce woman, not alone for the good of our cause, but for the revenge her disappointment would be to me. The feeling gave me strength, and in five minutes more I could almost reach out my hands and touch her.
“Stop!” I shouted in anger.
She whirled about again and struck at me, full strength, with the butt of her pistol. I might have suffered a severe, perhaps a stunning, blow, but by instinct I threw up my right hand, and her wrist gliding off it the pistol struck nothing, dashing with its own force from her hand. I warded off another swift blow aimed with the left fist, and then saw that I stood face to face not with Kate Van Auken but with her brother Albert.
There was a look upon his face of mingled shame and determination. How could he escape shame with his sister’s skirts around him and her hood upon his head?
My own feelings were somewhat mixed in character. First, there was a sensation of great relief, so quick I had not time to make analysis, and then there came over me a strong desire to laugh. I submit that the sight of a man caught in woman’s dress and ashamed of it is fair cause for mirth.
It was dark, but not too dark for me to see his face redden at my look.
“You’ll have to fight it out with me,” he said, very stiff and haughty.
“I purpose to do it,” I said, “but perhaps your clothes may be in your way.”
He snatched the hood off his head and hurled it into the bushes; then with another angry pull he ripped the skirt off, and, casting it to one side stood forth in proper man’s attire, though that of a citizen and not of the British soldier that he was.
He confronted me, very angry. I did not think of much at that moment save how wonderfully his face was like his sister Kate’s. I had never taken such thorough note of it before, though often the opportunity was mine.