They were sleeping soundly, oblivious of the alarm about the house; and standing beside his wife, his arm around her waist, John Devereux looked down at them.
On one of the pallets lay Humphrey, his strong young arms outstretched, and his chest—broad for his years, and finely developed—-showing white as alabaster where the simple linen garment was rarely buttoned by his impatient fingers.
On the other were the two younger boys; and Robert, the gentlest of the three, with his father's own winsome nature, lay with his head half pillowed against his brother John's shoulder.
"What a blessed thing is childhood, and ignorance of danger!" murmured Anne, looking at her husband.
"Aye," he said softly, as they turned away. "So may we know no fear of dangers that threaten, sweet wife, while we trust to Him who watcheth us,—who 'slumbers not, nor sleeps.'"
And as she had answered him ten years before, so she said to him now, "So long as we be together, I have no fear."
A long and shrill sound now broke the silence. It was the blowing of the conch shell suspended in front of the outer door; and it announced a visitor seeking admission.
Surprised at this, and alarmed as well, husband and wife hurried to the front room below stairs, where they found Joane still crouched upon the hearth. Her bow, now unslung, lay close at hand, and she was examining with pleased curiosity the clumsy blunderbuss resting across her knees,—one that John, at her earnest request, had intrusted to her.
"No enemy—make heap too much noise," was her sententious remark, as she looked up from her inspection of the weapon.
"Mayhap they but do that to disarm us," John replied, as he went cautiously toward the door.