“Last Sixth-day.”
“Which was Friday, the first day of this month. Was your father at home at the time?”
“Yes,” answered Peggy quickly, “but he knew naught of it.”
“And did you not know that it was a misdemeanor to succor one of the enemy?”
“Yes, friend; I knew it.”
“You knew that ’twas a misdemeanor, and yet unbeknown to your father you still committed it?” he asked, as though amazed at such duplicity. “Did you not know that such an act might bring suspicion upon him? Did you not know that even though he had given good service to the cause, even that would not avail him if he were suspected of abetting a prisoner’s escape? Whom can we trust since General Arnold failed us?”
Peggy was too full of emotion to be able to do more than nod acquiescence.
“Then if you knew these things, why did you do this?” he demanded, his brow darkening.
“He was my cousin, Clifford Owen,” she told him brokenly. “I could not refuse him shelter in such a storm.”