forth to the war marched the men of new england, lighthearted every one of them and thinking, as did miles, that the siege of boston was to be a merry affair.

“we will be back in three months,” they said to their wives as they bade them good-bye. “we will drive those redcoats into the sea and convince king george of what stuff we really are made. then it will all be over.”

so down the roads came pouring a motley stream of volunteers, clad in hunting shirts and homespun, armed, for the most part, with the strangest weapons, flintlock muskets a hundred years old, clumsy, ancient blunderbusses and homemade pikes. all of the would-be soldiers knew how to shoot, but very few, how to march or drill; and nearly every one of them desired to be an officer. who was to be found who could change this earnest-hearted but many-minded rabble into an army? that was the question on everybody’s tongue.

to the women of new england, however, the war seemed a greater and a graver thing, for it is easier to feel misgiving when you sit at home alone. what mattered to any one of them how short the struggle was if the goodman of that particular house never came home again? yet there was little time for brooding since, if the war was to go on, the women must do their part. the army must somehow be given clothes to wear and food to eat, and out of the households of america must all such garments and provisions come. down from the garrets were brought the big spinning-wheels that had long been laid away, and loud was their song as they began to whirr like swarming bees; the looms creaked, the scissors snipped, needles flew in and out and the ovens glowed all day long, for every one who was not at the war was toiling for the army.

among all these busy ones, clotilde and mother jeanne and the company of servants in the big house did their full share. stephen, meanwhile, prowled up and down the narrow bounds of the garden and frowned and shook his head over the letters that came to him from philadelphia, where the congress was sitting. such endless arguments, disagreements and downright quarrels were occupying them while the precious days passed! the lesson of acting together seemed a hard one for the colonies to learn.

“if you could but be here!” was the burden of nearly every letter that came, although they who wrote and he who read both knew that such a thing was impossible. the long perilous journey to philadelphia was utterly out of the question for a man of advancing years and such frail health as stephen’s. gladly would he have taken all risks had there been any hope, even in his own mind, that he could reach pennsylvania with strength enough left to be of any use. not even he could think so, however.

mother jeanne, provoked out of her usual respectful silence, observed grimly, when she heard the journey suggested:

“monsieur must believe that a dead man would be a welcome addition to that great assembly.”

one journey, however, he did take and clotilde with him, for which, although he was ill afterwards, neither of them could ever be made to express regret. it was early in july that they travelled up to cambridge to see the review of troops before the army’s new leader, colonel george washington, out of virginia. after the review was over and clotilde had gazed her fill at the marching soldiers who were beginning at last, in form and discipline to resemble an army, and at the tall splendid figure that had ridden up and down the lines, she was amazed to see the general turn, come toward them and dismount a few paces off stephen, leaning on his cane, had stepped forward to render his duty to the commander-in-chief, but general washington was too quick for him, and advanced to take his hand before he could speak.

“i came to offer my respects to you, not to receive yours,” said he, “to salute the man who, above all others, has made possible what we see to-day.”

“no, no,” exclaimed stephen, “there is no credit due to a man who has been able to accomplish as little as i.”

“it is through your unwearying toil,” insisted the general, “through your preaching of the need of union up and down the highways and byways of america, that this thing has come to pass. to-day an obscure soldier of virginia takes command of an army where men of his own state, of pennsylvania and of maryland are ready to fight side by side with the minute-man of new england. the honour of this achievement, sir, is all yours!”

he drew his shining sword and held it up in grave salute to this great citizen of massachusetts who stood there in his homespun coat under the shade of the wide elm tree. out came the swords of all the officers of the general’s staff, while from the men of the army rolled up so great a shout that it might have been heard across the river in beleaguered boston. there was something like tears in stephen’s bright eyes as he looked steadily into the grave blue-grey ones of washington and spoke his answer.

“whatever small work i may have begun, sir,” he said simply, “i surrender now into far more able hands, to be carried to a glorious end.”

and raising his hat and holding it high above his head, he led the crowd of bystanders in a lusty cheer for general washington.

clotilde, standing at his side, was trembling all over with joy and excitement. she was so happy that her master sheffield had received the tribute that was so justly due him, she longed so to be a man and able to fight in the splendid cause of liberty. she saw miles atherton’s brown face among the lesser officers and flashed him a bright look of admiration and delighted envy. alas, her share of the struggle must be fought out beside the spinning-wheel and the loom and the blazing kitchen hearth!

she had no chance to speak to miles, for presently he and his men were told off in columns and marched away toward boston. the music of the drum and the high, thin fife playing yankee doodle died in the distance and there was left only the sound of thudding feet, scuffling in a choking cloud of dust. she longed to watch the last soldier out of sight, but stephen led her away to the waiting coach.

it was an exciting journey back to hopewell, through the villages where flags were flying and drums beating and where the people came running out to cheer master sheffield as he went by; through stretches of dark forest where the rough roads threw them about in the big, clumsy coach and where there might be king’s soldiers lurking in every thicket. although stephen assured her that all the redcoats were shut up in boston, clotilde rather hoped than dreaded that the little party might be attacked and nobly rescued, perhaps, by miles atherton and the brave men of the hopewell company. but no such thrilling adventure occurred and the journey was accomplished in safety.

as they were driving through the town next to hopewell, late in the evening, they passed a huge fire that was burning before the gates of a stately brick house set far back from the road.

“oh, look, look,” cried clotilde, “and oh, what a dreadful smell!”

surely it was a fearful odour that rose from the bonfire fed by a score of hurrying black figures. baskets full of evil-smelling sulphur were being emptied into the flames so that clouds of suffocating smoke rolled toward the house and penetrated the doors and windows, tightly closed as they were.

he drew his shining sword and held it up.

“that is the abode of andrew shadwell,” stephen told her. “he is a tory and a sympathiser with the english, so, rich and influential as he is, his fellow townsmen are visiting him with dire punishment.”

cries of “blow up the fire!” “smoke him out, the traitorous loyalist!” were going up as the coach rumbled past, clotilde burying her small nose in her kerchief as she went by.

“no one need tell me that the spirit of the intolerant old puritans is quite perished from the earth,” laughed stephen, as they finally passed the place and were able to breathe again. “andrew shadwell must be a sorry man this night that he voiced his opinions so loudly.”

there began, after this journey, the endless, breathless waiting while boston held out in spite of the long siege and while all watched patiently for the time when the british should be starved into surrender. now and then, bodies of the king’s troops broke through the circle of besiegers and made desperate sallies into the surrounding country for food and supplies, of which the city began to be sadly in want. or sometimes an english ship would land a handful of redcoats here or there upon the coast, who would make a dash through a town or two, burn a few houses and hurry back to the safety of their vessel. otherwise, there was little news or excitement through the long summer, and the hum of the spinning-wheels and the thump, thump of the busy looms sounded peacefully from every open cottage door.

but the peace of hopewell was not to remain unbroken. there was one night when october had come, when the corn and wheat and oats had been gathered in, when the yellow pumpkins and rosy apples were ready for harvesting, that clotilde became aware of a commotion in the fields beyond their garden. there were moving lights, voices and the sound of tramping feet in the hard yellow stubble. a few minutes later, miles atherton, thinner and browner for his months of soldier’s service, but the same earnest-eyed, little-speaking miles, came in at the wide-open door.

“i must speak with master sheffield,” he said briefly to clotilde, although his face shone with excitement.

“come in, lad,” said stephen, who was standing by the study door. “what can it be that brings you here? i see by your face that it is something unusual that is on foot.”

“it is,” replied miles in troubled tones. “there is a company of redcoats who have slipped out of boston and have so far eluded us who were sent out to capture them. they have never before ventured so far as this, but they are growing desperate in the city and they know that the whole countryside, up this way, is full of well-stored barns from the abundant harvest. this raid is made by a troop of soldiers greater in number than we had at first thought, so we have sent for reinforcements and are to make a stand near hopewell and hold them until help comes.”

“yes, yes,” said stephen quickly and a little impatiently, for this amount of information from miles came very slowly. “i understand. and where is the fight to be?”

“why,” miles went on, his voice becoming more anxious and worried, “we could make our stand to the south of your grounds here, but the situation is not good and we would run the risk of losing all, since we are greatly outnumbered. master sheffield, you must order out your coach and come with us.”

“but why?” questioned stephen in surprise, and “why, why?” gasped clotilde.

“because there is great danger,” cried miles, “great danger to you all in biding here. we fear that one purpose of this raid is to accomplish master sheffield’s arrest. you are spoken of among the english as one of the leaders of the rebellion, and therefore we are certain that it is the order for your capture that has brought the redcoats so far. could we make a stand here and protect you, most surely we would, but the country is too open and the way too clear. we would, every one of us, willingly give our lives to save you, but common sense tells plainly that a battle here would be to no purpose and you would be taken in the end. so do make haste, the men are hot upon our heels.”

“nonsense,” exclaimed stephen. “there is no ghost of danger. i have, indeed, had letters from the british authorities that lead me to believe that they love me not, but i am not so great a man for them to take such trouble to accomplish my capture. come, clotilde, tell this foolish lad that his friendship for us has made him over anxious.”

but clotilde, for once, forsook his side and joined her voice to miles’ arguments. that stout soldier, after laying forth his plan to march through hopewell and the next village and make a stand on north hill, a spot so favourable that they could be certain of holding fast until help arrived, firmly maintained that he would not stir one step without master sheffield and neither would his men.

“well, well,” sighed stephen at last, “an old man must give in to importunate children. to give battle here would, as i see, merely waste lives that the country needs and might also lead to the slaying of innocent towns-folk and the burning of houses. so, if you will not go on without me, i must needs come too. clotilde, go tell jason to order out the coach.”

preparations were so hurried that there was no time for useless bewailing. some of the silver was hidden, some of the linen locked away, but nothing of real service could be accomplished. as clotilde ran through the hall, pulling her cloak about her, she saw that the great bible had been brought out of the study and was lying on the table. mère jeanne had felt that it would be wicked to leave it behind, but had been obliged in the end to put it down hastily, as it was too heavy a burden to carry far. the breeze from the open door had fluttered over the pages so that, as clotilde stopped to blow out the last of the candles burning upon the table, she saw staring up from the open page the dark terrifying face that stood to her for jeremiah macrae.

“oh, no,” she cried aloud in terror, as though his words had actually sounded in her ears. “not that! not that!” and she ran out swiftly, leaving the book still open on the table.

mother jeanne and one or two of the older servants came with them, the rest sought shelter in the village, so that the house was left unprotected and all alone. clotilde, looking back through the coach window, could see the kitchen firelight still shining through the vine-hung casement and could feel her hot tears flowing at the thought of rude hands battering at the door of that beloved dwelling and clumsy feet trampling the flowers that still bloomed bravely in the garden. then, as a turn in the road hid the house from sight, she laid her head against mother jeanne’s shoulder and wept bitterly.

she seemed to remember afterward only brief snatches of that strange night’s ride, first their passing through the town of hopewell and stephen’s leaning from the coach window to bid the people stay quiet in their houses and leave the fighting to be done by captain atherton’s soldiers. then, after bumping down the road at a hurried gallop, they drove through the next town where, before a gate, andrew shadwell sat on a great black horse.

“ha, stephen sheffield,” he called, “it was you who rode by me in your pride some months ago, but now, when you pass again, you are fleeing from your enemies and my friends. in a week you will be begging me to intercede for you with the king’s officers. your time is over, man!”

the last words could scarcely be heard as the big coach rattled down the road, while stephen smiled grimly and made no reply. mother jeanne, between hysterical sobs, was crying out in voluble french that the ride would kill monsieur sheffield and that they might as well have remained at home to be murdered comfortably in their beds. at this clotilde sat up, dried her eyes and fell to comforting her, that stephen might have, at least, some peace and quiet on this sad journey. the stars began to show in a misty sky and, by the pale light she could see that they were slowly mounting a long, steep hill. here they waited for a time until the soldiers, who had dropped behind, could catch up with them. miles came to the coach window to tell them that this was the point he had chosen to make his stand and that they were to drive on for three miles to a little inn that would give them shelter.

“should there be danger, i will send a messenger to bid you flee farther,” he said, “but for that, i am sure, there will be no need. the enemy is pushing on, hot foot, to capture you and us, and will fall headlong into our hands.”

he dropped behind once more, and the big coach rumbled and jolted on into the dark. up the long hill it crawled, then paused again to rest the horses for a moment on the summit before it went over the crest and plunged into the sheltered valley beyond. looking back, clotilde thought she could see a far, red glow in the sky that faded even as she watched, and died down so quickly that she did not speak of it. after that things seemed to become confused in the darkness, it seemed only a moment before they arrived at the inn, where the sleepy, blinking landlord came out to lead them inside. they heard a sound of far-off firing as they dismounted from the coach.

inside, with the fire rebuilt and the settles pulled forward to the blaze, she and mère jeanne sat facing stephen and waited, so it seemed, for something like a hundred years. although she thought that it would be wicked to sleep when they were in such trouble and miles in such grave danger, still she dozed against mother jeanne’s shoulder, woke and fell asleep again, this time so soundly that she never knew when they laid her down, covered her with a cloak and let her slumber quietly the whole night through. she sat up with a start, however, when, just as day broke, there was a loud knocking at the door and miles burst in, ruddy, excited and triumphant.

“the victory is ours!” he cried. “we held them stoutly until the other troops came up to help us, and the whole band of king george’s men had to surrender. there are six english officers prisoners, looking as though they would rather stab themselves than be taken by a handful of backwoods patriots and there are, i know not how many german privates, hired by king george to fight his rebels for him.”

“and so you have them all?” said stephen; “that is indeed well done!”

“there was one officer that escaped,” admitted miles, “for he alone would not surrender, and with dare-devil courage broke through the troops behind him, on his big grey horse and got clean away. but we have all the rest and our losses are most miraculously few.”

“did they—did they stop to do harm to our dwelling?” inquired clotilde falteringly, almost afraid to learn the truth.

“that i do not know,” miles answered, “although i have asked many times. the officers will not tell and the hessians cannot, since they speak no english. poor things, they seem to have small objection to being prisoners.”

it was full daylight when they set out on their homeward journey, a dull, raw day, threatening rain. stephen, leaning back among the cushions of the coach, slept at last, but looking so white and spent that clotilde and mère jeanne gazed at each other in anxious dismay. the way seemed very long, over the hill, past their meeting-place with andrew shadwell and out into the open country again. the townspeople came out in such throngs to stare at the hessian prisoners, who were marching behind, that progress was hampered and the coach, finally drawing away from the soldiers, went forward alone.

they were passing a narrow crossroad, stephen asleep, mother jeanne nodding and clotilde staring idly through the window, when she was suddenly startled by the thunder of flying hoofs. a man mounted upon a tall grey horse went by at a headlong gallop, passing so near that the girl could see his face plainly, even to the shape of his square jaw and, almost, the colour of his eyes. beneath his flying cloak she caught a glimpse of scarlet uniform.

“it must be the officer who would not surrender,” she cried softly. “perhaps andrew shadwell hid him but was afraid to shelter him longer. oh, i wonder if he will escape in the end.”

there was no one to stop him now, except old black jason on the box, who seemed to have no desire for such a task, so the man swept by unhindered and soon dwindled to a flying speck far off down the road.

it was strange how closely she had seen his face, and stranger still the feeling she had that it was somehow familiar. in vain she searched her memory, she could think of no place nor time when she could have seen such a man before. she pondered much over this curious thought of hers and only forgot it when the big coach rolled into the streets of hopewell.

people came running out of their houses to stop the horses, peep inside and see if their well-loved master sheffield was really safe. there was a queer, subdued look upon all the friendly faces, a look speaking of news too grievous to tell. it frightened clotilde and made her wish that the coach would hurry and bring them safely home. the same feeling, also, seemed to have seized old jason on the box, for, instead of going round by the tree-bordered avenue, he took the nearest way, rattled down the lane at a great pace and drew up with a jerk before the little gate.

clotilde opened the door and got out stiffly. she looked before her, then rubbed her eyes and looked again with a sickening feeling of having come unexpectedly upon a place that she had never seen before. this great open space inside the gate was surely not the place where they lived! but still, there was the little white gate, and there across the field was samuel skerry’s cottage where she and mother jeanne had once dwelt.

“we have come down the wrong street,” she cried to jason on the box, but he, in silence, only shook his head, the tears running down his black wrinkled face. the real truth began to dawn upon her, very slowly.

stephen sheffield stepped out of the coach and, leaning on her arm, made his way, without speaking, through the gate and across what had once been the garden. only a tall stone chimney, standing upright in the midst of a heap of smoking embers, showed where the great white house had stood. the fire that had consumed it had swept across the lawns, burning flowers and hedges and the dry, frost-killed grass. of master simon’s garden there was nothing left save the littered gravel paths, the blackened linden tree and the stone-based sundial upon which the watery autumn sunlight was faintly marking the hour of noon.