At two o’clock Captain Ritchie approached him.
“When what is in progress is concluded, there only remains the Parsonage,” he announced.
“Then search it, can’t ye?” cried Cope, with an oath. “What d’ye think you’re here for—to talk?”
The officer drew himself up.
“I would remind you, Mr. Cope, that you’re not addressing a trooper,” he said stiffly; and Cope spluttered and spat.
“O—my—dear—God!... Is this a time for your airs and dignities? Will you make dainty with your seminary manners when—aaaah!”
The left-hand lamp-glass of the yellow chaise was shattered by a bullet. The candle leaped out, cut in two. Echoes were following the report, and a puff of smoke drifted slowly along the edge of the Scout. Captain Ritchie sprang aside.
“Fire as you are!” he ordered; “mind the others——”; and, save for a figure that was seen running far along the skyline, every man on the face of the Scout had dropped for cover. The muskets came up as if for birds; quick dropping shots rang out; and sharp cracks from the soldiers up the Scout seemed to answer them like echoes.
“Draw this chaise to one side,” said Cope, biting at his finger again.
Captain Ritchie strode up the lane to the parson’s house and knocked loudly at the door. The parson himself answered the knock.