“They are Injuns,” said the boy stoutly, peering out into the gloom.
They were in perfect darkness, for it was a cloudy night, and not a ray came from the house-door.
“For what reason were you abroad to-night?” inquired the elder in what Letitia considered a disagreeably patronizing tone as addressed to such a pretty brave little boy.
“I went to visit my rabbit traps,” replied the boy, but his voice was slightly hesitant.
“In this darkness?”
“I had a pine knot, but I flung it away when I heard the noises.”
“A pine knot, and Injuns around, and you with naught but a scalping knife? 'Tis not bravery but tomfoolery,” said the elder Letitia. “I'll warrant you stole out without the knowledge of Goodman Cephas Holbrook and Mistress Holbrook, and they having taken you in as they did and given you food and shelter, with nine of their own to care for, and not knowing of a certainty who you might be.”
Letitia felt sure that the boy hung his head in the darkness. He mumbled something incoherent.
“It was out of the window in the lean-to you got, and ran away,” declared the elder Letitia severely. “You are not a boy to be trusted. You can remain here with Letitia, and I will stand guard a little way down the path; and do not speak above a whisper, although I be sure there be none but catamounts to hear.”
With that, Great-great-grandmother Letitia, musket over shoulder, moved down the path and stood quite concealed as if by a vast cloak of night, an alert vigilant young figure with the hot blood of her time leaping in her veins, and the shrewd brain of her time alive to everything which might stir that darkness with sound or light.