“You are too late, Jack! The prisoner has eluded me. Look for him on the road to Tarrytown,—and be quick about it, for God’s sake!”
Colden drew back aghast, thrown from the height of triumph to the depth of chagrin. Peyton, fearing lest the one joyous bound of his heart might have betrayed him, remained perfectly still, knowing that if any movement should take Elizabeth from between the soldiers and the projection of the spinet, or if the soldiers should enter further and chance to look under the spinet, he would be seen.
“Don’t you understand?” said Elizabeth, assuming one impatience to conceal another. “There’s no time to lose! ’Twas the rebel Peyton! He’s afoot!”
“The road to Tarrytown, you say?” replied Colden, gathering back his faculties.
“Yes, to Tarrytown! Why do you wait?” Her vehemence of tone sufficed to cover the growing insupportability of her situation.
“To the road again, men!” Colden ordered. “Till we meet, Elizabeth!” And he hastened, with the rangers, from the place.
“‘YOU ARE TOO LATE, JACK!’”
Peyton and Elizabeth remained motionless till the sound of the horses was afar. Then Elizabeth called 155 Williams, who, as she had supposed, had come into the hall with the rangers. He now entered the parlor. Elizabeth, whose back was still towards Peyton, who had risen and was leaning on the spinet, addressed the steward in a low, embarrassed tone, as if ashamed of the weakness newly come over her.