“Pull those red roses out of her belt; we want no Tory colours here!” cried Amanda Bryce; and two or three hands reached toward the knot of scarlet blossoms. But Joscelyn, her eyes beginning to kindle, stepped back and raised her own hand warningly.
“Do not touch me! Yes, I am a Tory, as you are pleased to call us, and I am not ashamed that the king’s army hath been preserved from destruction; but I am sorry, very sorry your friends and kindred are to suffer—though perhaps some punishment is necessary to rebels.”
Mistress Strudwick started to the girl’s side, but little Billy Bryce was before her.
“Who touches Joscelyn must first pass me!” he cried to the angry women. “Mother, be silent! What share could a girl like this have in our capture; and what matters a few men taken when the victory was ours?”
“Yes, praise God, we thrashed the miserable cowards of Redcoats as they deserved.”
“A great thrashing ’twas, when they lost not a wagon of their train, and took more prisoners than Washington,” Joscelyn answered tartly.
A dozen voices answered her angrily, and she opened her lips to reply, but Mistress Strudwick clapped her broad palm over the girl’s mouth.
“Hold your saucy tongue, Joscelyn; and you girls, there, be silent this minute. What, is the war to ruin the manners of our women that they can descend so low as to brawl in the public streets? Shame upon you, every one! What hath come of your senses that you thus demean yourselves and belittle the raising your elders gave you?”
The reproof had the desired effect; for the girl stood silent and abashed, and her angry assailants drew back. Taking advantage of the lull, Mistress Strudwick seized Joscelyn by the arm and almost forcibly drew her away.