[CHAPTER VII—THE “JUDGMENT SEAT”]
Without waiting to be bidden, a man of massive mould entered the room. He strode into the firelight, and, wheeling on the hearth, faced the company, his shadow filling half the room.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Mr. Felton and Graves.”
The latter stood with the untasted dram half way to his gaping mouth, the other was as motionless, save as his face expressed successively astonishment, anger, and exultation.
“Colonel Ethan Allen,” he said at last, emphasizing the title. “Most happy to receive a call from so distinguished a person. A very fortunate meeting.” Then changing his tone of mock politeness to one of command: “You are my prisoner. Men, lay hold of him! A hundred pounds are offered for his head! It is Ethan Allen! Lay hold of him, I tell you!”
There was a reluctant stir among the men. One advanced toward the corner near the fireplace where the guns were set. With deliberate celerity Allen drew his hands from the skirts of his coat, a cocked pistol in each, and, with one of them, he covered the man skulking towards the guns.
“The first man that draws a pistol or raises a gun gets a bullet through his carcass,” he said with authority.
At Allen’s first words Seth had mounted the ladder and as quickly reappeared with his gun. The movement was seen in the dancing shadows, and he was covered by the other pistol, which was lowered as he was distinguished to be helping a woman and child to mount to the chamber.
“Down with your gun over there! Oh, it is our friend Beeman! All right!” Then Allen called in a voice that made the pewter dishes ring on their shelves:
“Come in, men!”