Therefore he was still with the Hardings that day late in April when Ethan Allen, riding out of Bennington into the north to carry a torch which should fire every farm and hamlet with patriotic fervor, reined in his steed at the door of the farmhouse. The children saw the great man coming and ran from the fields with Bolderwood, while the widow appeared at her door and welcomed Colonel Allen.
“Will you ’light, sir?” she asked him. “It has been long since you favored us with a visit.”
“And long will it be ere I come again, perhaps, Mistress Harding. I am like Sampson–I have taken an oath. And mine is not to rest, nor to give this critter rest, until I have spoken to as many true men in these Grants as may be seen in a week. The time has come to act!”
“Reckon I’d better be joggin’ erlong toward Old Ti, heh, Colonel?” remarked the ranger, leaning an elbow on the pommel of the saddle.
“You had, ’Siah, you had. We can depend upon you, and those red-coated rascals there must be kept unsuspicious and their fears–if they have any–lulled to sleep. I have one man already who proposes to put his head in the Lion’s mouth and return–providing the jaws do not close on him–to tell us in what state the old pile of stone is kept.”
“But what has started you out so suddenly, Colonel Allen?” demanded the widow.
“What! have ye not heard? There was a packet came from Boston yesterday.”
“We have seen nobody this week,” declared Enoch.
“There has been blood shed, friends,” said the giant, earnestly, his eyes flashing and the color in his cheek deepening. “American freemen have been shot down like sheep in the slaughter!”
“Where? Who were killed? What was the cause? Who did it?” were some of the queries hurled at their informant by the little group.