"'They!'" gasped Cynthia. "Who?"
"The British soldiers. They tied a rope round her horns. She kicked well, but they jerked her along. Cynthy, Cynthy, what shall we do?"
Cynthia uttered a sound between a groan and a war-whoop, and darted out of the door. Along the dusty road she ran, on and on. Her yellow sun-bonnet fell back on her shoulders, and her brown curls were covered with dust. One mile, two miles, three miles—on and on. At last she reached a small house, which was Lord Cornwallis's head-quarters. Never a moment did Cynthia pause. The sentinels challenged her in vain. She marched majestically past them. Into the house—into the parlor—walked she.
There sat Lord Cornwallis and some six of his officers, eating and drinking at a big table.
Cynthia stopped at the threshold and dropped a courtesy.
Lord Cornwallis glanced up and saw her.
Miss Cynthia dropped another courtesy, opened her lips, and spake.
"I am Cynthia Smith," said she, gravely, "and your men have taken my cow, Free-'n'-equal Smith, and I've come to fetch her home, if you please."
"Your cow?" questioned Lord Cornwallis, pausing, with a wine-glass in his hand.