to know?"
"Because I desire to consult him concerning certain matters."
"What matters?"
"Matters which do not concern you!" I snapped out.
"Are you sure of that, pretty boy?"
"Am I sure?" I repeated, furious. "What do you mean? Will you answer an honest question or not?"
"Why do you desire to see this Sagamore?" she repeated so obstinately that I fairly clenched my teeth.
"Answer me," I said. "Or had you rather I fetched a file of men up here?"
"Fetch a regiment, and I shall tell you nothing unless I choose."
"Good God, what folly!" I exclaimed. "For whom and for what do you take me, then, that you refuse to answer the polite and harmless question of an American officer!"
"You had not so named yourself."
"Very well, then; I am Euan Loskiel, Ensign in Morgan's rifle regiment!"
"You say so."
"Do you doubt it?"
"Birds sing," she said. Suddenly she stepped from the dark doorway, came to where I stood, bent forward and looked me very earnestly in the eyes—so closely that something—her nearness—I know not what—seemed to stop my heart and breath for a second.
Then, far on the western hills lightning glimmered; and after a long while it thundered.
"Do you wish me to find this Sagamore for you?" she asked very quietly.
"Will you do so?"
A drop of rain fell; another, which struck her just where the cheek curved under the long black lashes, fringing them with brilliancy like tears.
"Where do you lodge?" she asked, after a silent scrutiny of me.
"This night I am a guest at Major Lockwood's. Tomorrow I travel north again with my comrade, Lieutenant Boyd."
She was looking steadily at me all the time; finally she said:
"Somehow, I believe you to be a friend to liberty. I know it—somehow."
"It is very likely, in this rifle dress I wear," said I smiling.
"Yet a man may dress as he pleases."
"You mistrust me for a spy?"
"If you are, why, you are but one more among many hereabouts. I think you have not been in Westchester very long. It does not matter. No boy with the face you wear was born to betray anything more important than a woman."
I turned hot and scarlet with chagrin at her cool presumption—and would not for worlds have had her see how the impudence stung and shamed me.
For a full minute she stood there watching me; then:
"I ask pardon," she said very gravely.
And somehow, when she said it I seemed to experience a sense of inferiority—which was absurd and monstrous, considering what she doubtless was.
It had now begun to rain in very earnest; and was like to rain harder ere the storm passed. My clothes being my best, I instinctively stepped into the doorway; and, of a sudden, she was there too, barring my entry, flushed and dangerous, demanding the reason of my intrusion.
"Why," said I astonished, "may I not seek shelter from a storm in a ruined sugar-house, without asking by your leave?"
"This sap-house is my own dwelling!" she said hotly. "It is where I live!"
"Oh, Lord," said I, bewildered, "—if you are like to take offense at everything I say, or look, or do, I'll find a hospitable tree somewhere——"
"One moment, sir——"
"Well?"
She stood looking at me in the doorway, then slowly dropped her eyes, and in the same law voice I had heard once before:
"I ask your pardon once again," she said. "Please to come inside—and close the door. An open door draws lightning."
It was already drawing the rain in violent gusts.
The thunder began to bang with that metallic and fizzling tone which it takes on when the bolts fall very near; flash after flash of violet light illuminated the shack at intervals, and the rafters trembled as the black shadows buried us.
"Have you a light hereabout?" I asked.
"No,"
For ten minutes or more the noise of the storm made it difficult to hear or speak. I could scarce see her now in the gloom. And so we waited there in silence until the roar of the rain began to die away, and it slowly grew lighter outside and the thunder grew more distant.
I went to the door, looked out into the dripping woods, and turned to her.
"When will you bring the Sagamore to me?" I demanded.
"I have not promised."
"But you will?"
She waited a while, then:
"Yes, I will bring him."
"When?"
"Tonight."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"And if it rains again''
"It will rain all night, but I shall send you the Sagamore. Best go, sir. The real tempest is yet to break. It hangs yonder above the Hudson. But you have time to gain the Lockwood House."
I said to her, with a slight but reassuring smile, most kindly intended:
"Now that I am no longer misunderstood by you, I may inform you that in what you do for me you serve our common country." It did not seem a pompous speech to me.
"If I doubted that," she said, "I had rather pass the knife you wear around my throat than trouble myself to oblige you."
Her words, and the quiet, almost childish voice, seemed so oddly at variance that I almost laughed; but changed my mind.
"I should never ask a service of you for myself alone," I said so curtly that the next moment I was afraid I had angered her, and fearing she might not keep her word to me, smiled and frankly offered her my hand.
Very slowly she put forth her own—a hand stained and roughened, but slim and small. And so I went away through the dripping bush, and down the rocky hill. A slight sense of fatigue invaded me; and I did not then understand that it came from my steady and sustained efforts to ignore what any eyes could not choose but see—this young girl's beauty—yes, despite her sorry mien and her rags—a
