Search the loft of the meeting-house. A servant of his majesty.
A quick glow came into the young man’s face. John Thurlow was standing near and looked at him a little curiously. “Good news, judging from your face,� said John.
“Aye, the best,� the Royalist said slowly. And never did John Thurlow forget the curious tone and look of the Tory.
It was no difficult matter to examine the loft, which was found nearly full of arms and powder. But Robbins did not choose to seize the munitions; he hoped to convict Thurlow, at least, if none of the others. He set spies on the church, meaning to capture any of the king’s enemies who might attempt to take away arms.
Then another note came to him:
On Monday next there will be a midnight meeting in the loft. It might interest the captain to attend.
It was Saturday afternoon then. One of the Royalists happened to be passing the house; the captain called him, and the two young men swung into step down the road to the meeting-house. Dolly Pearson stood watching the two as they walked quickly away; then some suspicion came to her from their gestures. She tried to dismiss it as foolish, but tried in vain.
Suddenly she started off on a run across the fields. When she reached the meeting-house her breath was coming in heavy gasps. The building was open for one of its rare sweepings, but no one was in sight just then. The girl ran in and up the winding stairs and crouched down behind the pulpit, and lay there listening and trying to still the noisy beating of her heart.
It seemed ages that she crouched there; perhaps she had been mistaken—they might not have been coming here—then she started at the sound of voices. She dared not peer out. She held herself rigid and listened—listened for the life of John Thurlow whom Elizabeth loved.
“Forty muskets and seven kegs of powder,� said one voice.