“Yes, Clifford.”
“And the dinner, good people?” broke in Harriet. “Am I not to be pleasured by your company?”
“The dinner can wait,” exclaimed her brother shortly. “We’ll get this business over with.”
Too intent upon her own feelings to give heed to the dourness of the lad Peggy followed him silently as he strode from the house. In all her after life she never forgot that walk: the glare of the sun; the soft touch of the breeze which came freshly from the sea; the broad expanse of the river where it melted into the broader sweep of the bay; the frigates and shipping of the British lying in the river below, and above all the heaviness of her heart as she followed her cousin to the place where John Drayton awaited death.
Eastward of the village, on its extreme outskirts stood a small one story house with but one window and a single door. It was quite remote from the other dwellings of the town, and the tents of the army lay further to the east and south so that it practically stood alone. A mulberry tree at some little distance from the house afforded the only relief from the blazing August sun to be found in that part of the village. Two sentries marched to and fro around the hut, while a guard, heavily armed, sat just without the threshold of the door. Clifford conducted the girl at once to the entrance. The guard saluted and moved aside at his command.
SHE STEPPED INTO THE ROOM