“Ah, Winifred,” he cried, “what were you doing there? Looking out, I am certain. Have you forgotten the punishment inflicted on Lot’s wife when she would not obey orders?”
“I have just had a glimpse of that dreadful negro in Johannes’ House,” she said.
Mr. Mayne threw down a bundle of clothes he was carrying. He unslung his rifle. His face, tanned by exposure to sun and rain, lost some of its brick-red color.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, as if their voices might betray them. Like every other man in the garrison he longed to check the career of “Bob the Nailer.”
“It is too late,” said the girl. “He was visible only for an instant. Look! I saw him at that window.”
She partly opened the wooden shutter again and pointed to an upper story of the opposite building. Almost instantly a bullet imbedded itself in the solid planks. Some watcher had noted the opportunity and taken it. Winifred coolly closed the casement and adjusted its cross-bar.
“Perhaps it is just as well you missed the chance,” she said. “You might have been shot yourself while you were taking aim.”
“And what about you, my lady?”
“I sha’n’t offend again, uncle, dear. I really could not tell you why I looked out just now. Things were quiet, I suppose. And I forgot that the opening of a window would attract attention. But why in the world are you bringing me portions of Mr. Malcolm’s uniform? That is what you have in the bundle, is it not?”
“Yes. The three men who shared his room are dead, and the place is wanted as an extra ward. I happened to hear of it, so I have rescued his belongings.”