"Can we not take the Bedford Road?" I asked, anxiously.
"They say the British are betwixt us and the west," replied Mount. His eyes had begun to burn with a steady, fierce light; he sat astride the off horse, cocking and uncocking his rifle.
"Then we should make for the Boston Road!" I said, impatiently; "we can't stay here—"
"Look yonder!" broke in Foxcroft, excitedly.
Out into the Boston Road, in the gray haze of dawn, trotted a British officer, superbly mounted. The pale light glimmered on his silver gorget; the gold on his sleeves and hat sparkled.
Straight on his heels marched the British infantry, moving walls of scarlet topped with shining steel, rank after rank, in magnificent alignment, pouring steadily into the square, with never a drum-beat to time the perfect precision of their black-gaitered legs.
"Halt!" cried a far voice; the red ranks stood as one man. An officer galloped alongside of the motionless lines, and, leaning forward in his saddle, shouted to the disordered group of farmers, "Stop that drum!"
"Fall in! Fall in!" roared the captain of the militia; the old Louisburg drum thundered louder yet.
"Prime! Load!" cried the British officers, and the steady call was repeated from company to company, and yet to companies unseen, far down the Boston Road.
Twoscore of spectators had now so hemmed in our post-chaise that we could not move without crushing them, yet I struggled ceaselessly to back the vehicle into the stable-yard, and Foxcroft begged the crowd to move and let the chaise pass.