Meanwhile Maude had communicated with her uncle, who manifested no concern except for his guest, and even for him he had no fears provided he could reach the cave in safety. To accomplish that was Maude’s object, and as the Cross Roads lay in that direction a great amount of tact and skill was necessary. But Maude was equal to any emergency, and half an hour later there issued from Paul Haverill’s door, two figures clad in female garments, and whom a casual observer would have sworn were Maude De Vere and her servant Lois. Maude had a revolver in her pocket, and another in the basket she carried so carefully, and which was supposed to contain the cups of jelly and custard she was taking a poor sick neighbor, whose house was up the mountain path. At her side, with the shuffling gait peculiar to Lois, Tom Carleton walked, his nicely blackened face hidden in the deep shaker which Lois had worn for years, and his calico dress flopping awkwardly about his feet. Lois fortunately was very tall, and so her skirts did good service for the young man, whose powers of imitation were perfect, and who walked and looked exactly like the old colored woman watching his progress from an upper window, and declaring that she would almost “swar it was herself.”
At her side stood Charlie, a round spot of red burning on either pale cheek, and his slender hands grasping a revolver, while occasionally his blue eyes looked eagerly along the mountain road, which as yet was quiet and lonely.
“I never thought to raise my hand against my own people,” he said, “but if they harm Uncle Paul I shall shoot somebody.”
The sun had been gone from sight for some little time, and the tall mountain shadows were lying thick and black across the valley, when up the road several horsemen came galloping, and Paul Haverill’s house was ere long surrounded by a band of as rough, savage looking men as could well be found in the mountains of Tennessee.
Calmly and fearlessly Paul Haverill went out to meet them, asking why they were there, and why they seemed so much excited.
For a moment his old power over them asserted itself again, and they hesitated to charge him with treason, as they intended doing. But only for a brief space was there a calm, and then amid oaths and imprecations, and taunting sneers, and threats, they told him of the letter, and deriding him as a traitor, demanded the sneaking Yankee who had written that letter, and was now hidden in the house. To reason with such people was useless, and Paul Haverill did not try it. Standing upon his doorstep, with his grey hair blowing in the evening wind, and his hands deep in his pockets, he said,
“I admit your charge in part. There has been a Union soldier in my house,—an escaped prisoner from Columbia. I did care for him, and I am neither ashamed nor afraid to own it. Fear is a stranger to old Paul Haverill, as any of you who tries to harm him will find.”
“Never mind a speech, Paul,” said the leader of the men. “Nobody wants to hurt you, though you deserve hanging, perhaps. What we want is the Yankee. Fetch him out, and let’s see how he’ll look dangling in the air.”
“Yes, fetch him out,” yelled a dozen voices in chorus. “Bring out the Yankee, we want him. Hallo, puny face, are you a bad egg, too?” they continued, as Charlie appeared in the door.
“Shall I fire, Uncle Paul?” Charlie asked, and his uncle replied,