“It sounds simple enough; but it won’t be long before Appleweight’s friends miss him. You must remember that they are a shrewd lot.”
“We’ve got to take our chances. Let’s hope we are as shrewd as they are,” replied Habersham.
They moved softly through the wood, and presently the faint sound of singing reached them.
“Old Rabdick has finished his sermon, and we’ll know the worst in a few minutes.”
One of the party had already detached himself and crept forward toward the church, to meet his appointed comrade in the enterprise, who was to come in from the other side.
The clapboard church presented in the moonlight the austerest outlines, and as the men waited, a rude though unseen hand was slamming the wooden shutters that protected the windows from impious violence.
“We could do with less moon,” muttered Habersham, as he and Griswold peered through the trees into the churchyard.
“There goes Bill Appleweight now,” whispered one of the natives at his elbow, and Griswold felt his heart-beats quicken as he watched a tall figure silhouetted against the church and moving swiftly toward the rear of the building. At the front of the church voices sounded, as the departing worshippers rode or drove slowly away.
Habersham laid his hand suddenly on Griswold’s arm.
“They’ve got him! They’ve nailed him! See! There! They’re yanking him back into the timber. They’ve taken him and his horse!”