"Put down your guns," commanded Blennerhassett.
"Time is flying," whispered the wife, impatiently. "Let them scare him away."
"If you delay us longer, General Tupper, I cannot be answerable for what my men may do."
The cocking of a gun warned the well-intentioned officer to hurry away.
"Farewell," he shouted back, "I wish you a safe escape down the river, and a fortunate adventure."
The speech was answered by a yell of derision from the boatmen as they leapt on board the batteau, muskets in hand.
"Good-bye, my love," whispered Blennerhassett, clasping his wife in a parting embrace.
"Good-bye, dear!" she said, and kissed him. "Be strong! Be brave! All will end well. God bless you! Think of a glorious future!"
She turned to go, looked back, turned again from the icy margin of the river, and started homeward; but, after taking a few steps, she again stopped and stood a minute, shivering, and weeping under the bare boughs of the great oak tree beneath which Burr had read aloud to her one of her own sentimental poems. Groaning in spirit, and heart-stung by pangs of self-reproach, she hurried up the slope of the carriage road alone.
Through the drifting snow the brave woman returned to her house, which, seen dimly through a veil of falling flakes, had looked to her from a distance like an unsubstantial pile—a phantom habitation for spectres. As she entered its dark hall the Geneva clock struck twelve.