"You—you?" he stammered, rising slowly to his feet, and shaking himself in the effort to collect his scattered wits.
"Yes," she said impatiently. "You are on guard here—he knows you are outside his door?"
"Why, yes, mistress—o' course. I'm to be here in case he needs aught, as well as to keep folk out. He be alone, an' has ordered thet he's not to be disturbed."
"If he is alone," and her tone expressed relief, "so much the better for me. I must have speech with him this very minute."
Doak opened his mouth in remonstrance, but she would not permit him to speak.
"Do you hear?" she demanded. "I must see him this minute. Go and tell him so; and tell him it is upon a matter of life and death."
He said nothing more, but, looking more dazed than ever, turned and rapped on the door.
A voice whose deep tones had not yet left Dorothy's ears gave permission to enter, and Doak, after bidding her to stop where she was, went into the room.
For a second Dorothy stood hesitating. Then a look of fixed resolution came to her face, and before the door could close after the fisherman-soldier, she stepped forward and followed him.
Washington was—as when she intruded upon him before—seated at a table. But now he was writing; and as the two entered the room, he looked up as though annoyed at the interruption.