She made no reply, but she did not stir as I advanced, though her brown eyes watched my every step.
When I stood at her stirrup she looked down at me intently, and I saw she was younger even than I had thought, and was made more like a smooth, slim boy than a woman.
"You are Penelope Grant, of Caughnawaga," I said.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know who I am?"
"No, sir."
I named myself, saying with a smile that none of my name had ever broken faith in word or deed.
"Now," I continued, "that bell calls me to duty as surely as drum or trumpet ever summoned soldier since there were wars on earth. I must go to Stoner's; I can not guide you to Caughnawaga through the woods or take you thither by road or trail. And yet, if I do not, you mean to take my horse."
"I must."
"And risk a Mohawk war party on the way?"