In the afternoon the men had their work well laid out, and the master retired for an hour or two, as was often his custom, to the “Den.” The little windows, above and on the side, were wide open, the air that floated in was cooled by the shadows of the many-elled old house. Now and then came the faint sounds of Tim’s encouraging shout to his oxen, a cackle or long-drawn crow from the poultry-yard, the bark of a dog, digging at a squirrel-hole under the wall.
Mr. Percival stretched himself out comfortably in an old cane-seat chair, having taken from its shelf a copy of Thackeray’s “Henry Esmond,” and began to read. As the story was perfectly familiar to him, he opened the book in the middle, striking into the narrative where Colonel Esmond—one of the finest gentlemen in story—went to the wars under gallant old General Webb.
The air was soft and warm, and the out-door rustle of wind and bough so soothing, after the hard forenoon’s work, that Mr. Percival’s fancy began to play him queer tricks. He thought that lovely Beatrix Esmond was nodding and smiling to him through the little casement, and he was about to speak to her when he returned to consciousness with a start, laughed to himself as he saw the bit of apple-bough, with sunlight playing on the leaves, that had tricked him; fixed his eyes on the book again, read six lines, and went sound asleep.
His dreams still followed the course of the book he had been reading. He thought he was in England, and that Ruel was the exiled heir to the throne, whom it was his business to support; but that aunt Puss persisted in wearing diamonds at court and purring constantly (the maltese kittens had trotted into the Den and one of them jumped into Mr. Percival’s lap) while Ruel himself proceeded to ride about the room on a base-ball bat, in a manner quite inconsistent with royal dignity. Beatrix then came on the scene, but she talked with a brogue and confided to him, Mr. Percival, that her real name was Bridget, and that she had a yoke of oxen which were trained to gallop off with a fire-engine at every alarm. In fact, the oxen (who had been all the time eating hay behind Ruel’s throne) now advanced, and holding a hose-pipe in their paws—they were now very large red cats, he noticed carelessly—began to play on the fire.
The curious part of it was that the hose-pipe did not play water at all, but cannon-balls. Indeed, it was not hose, on closer view, but cannon, which aunt Puss, commanding the English forces, was firing against the French.
Boom! Boom! went the cannon. The noise of the conflict was terrible. Aunt Puss stopped purring and rode off on one of the cats, which were now oxen once more.
Boom! Boom! Boom! It fairly shook the room—no, the fort—that is—yes—what!—could it be? Mr. Percival rubbed his eyes and sat upright in his chair. Thackeray had dropped upon the floor; a few gray hairs in his lap, and a fading sensation of warmth in the same locality, betrayed the recent presence of Kittie. But—
Boom! boom! boom! The cannonading went on! Now fairly awake, Mr. Percival recognized the fact that there was an energetic pounding against the floor directly beneath his feet.
“Bless me!” exclaimed the good man aloud, jumping up and surveying the carpet suspiciously, “what can it be?”
The cellar, he knew, extended under the Den. That is, the base of the old chimney had been there, and—ah! that long disused passage! The little stone chamber under the arches, where one could stifle so easily, the girls had thought! A muffled cry, sounding strangely like “Help!” now accompanied the blows, which seemed lessening in force.