CHAPTER XIII

The night was clear, bright, and starlit, with not a wreath of vapor

drifting. The rising wind moaned through the woods about the Devereux

homestead, that loomed, a dark mass, and silent as a deserted house.

From the shore below came the hoarse roar of the tumbling water, to

mingle with the wailing murmur of the wind; and now and then could be

heard, clear-cut and eerie, the cry of a screech-owl from the woods.

As evening closed in, Joseph Devereux had ordered that no lights be

shown about the house, lest they might attract the attention of any

straggling soldiers; and he felt assured that this warning would be

sufficient to intimidate the women into the greatest caution.

As for the men, they were all, even old Leet, out with the party

watching at the "Black Hole,"--a bit of the sea shut in by a wood that

bordered a wide sweep of meadow known as the "Raccoon Lot." It was

here that the expected powder and arms were to be concealed by burying

them in the earth, after being wrapped in oilskin coverings.

Johnnie Strings had gone alone to the Sachem's Cave, ready to give the

signal.

The cave was somewhat farther down the shore, and a light shown above

it could be plainly seen from the open sea.

The rising wind piped softly about the closed window where Mary

Broughton was sitting in the starlight, absorbed in her own anxious

thoughts, until aroused by something unusual in Dorothy's appearance

and manner of moving about. The girl was at the farther side of the

unlit room, and Mary asked her what she was doing.

A low laugh was the only answer; and upon the question being repeated,

Dorothy came to the window, and Mary saw that she was clad in a

complete suit of boy's clothes.

The unexpected transition was so startling that for a moment she could

not speak, but sat looking at Dorothy in amazement.

"Oh, Dot," she then exclaimed, "you should take shame to yourself for

doing such a thing!"

She could see, even in the gloom, the wilful toss of Dorothy's head,

whose curls were let down and tied back with a ribbon, thus completing

the masculine disguise.

"Whatever are you thinking about, to play such pranks at a time like

this?" Mary demanded reproachfully.

"That is just it, Mary," Dorothy replied. She seemed in no wise

abashed, but spoke with perfect seriousness. "I do it because of the

time, and of what is going to happen to-night. Father said 't was not

safe for us to go abroad, because we wore petticoats. Now here is this

old suit Jack outgrew years ago, and I've always kept it to masquerade

in; but to-night it will serve me in a more serious matter. I cannot

stop in the house; I am too anxious about Jack. I want to see him and

the others get ashore in safety; and I've no fear but, dressed in this

way, it will be easy for me to do so."

"But you must not," Mary protested. "How can you dare to think of such

a thing? Suppose some of the men should recognize you,--and they will

be keeping a sharp lookout for strangers--what would your father say?"

And she began to have thoughts of seeing him, and so frustrating this

wild scheme.

"I tell you I must go, and will go, Mary; so do not try to prevent me.

I know every inch of ground hereabouts, and can easily keep out of the

way, even should any one try to hinder me. Why will you not go with

me?"

Dorothy spoke quietly, but very earnestly; and as she finished, she

placed both her hands on Mary's shoulders, as though to compel her

consent.

Mary hesitated. There was in her own heart a like desire to that of

the younger girl; she, too, wished to get out of doors, and see all

that should take place. But she held herself to be more prudent than

the impulsive Dorothy, and so for a time she demurred with her

inclination.

But it was only for a time. Dorothy's impetuous arguments fairly swept

her off her balance, as usually happened with any one who was fond of

the girl; and Mary agreed to be her companion.

It was some minutes after this when the two stole noiselessly down the

back stairway and let themselves out of the door opening toward the

sheds at the rear of the house. As Dorothy locked it on the outside

and put the key in her pocket, she whispered: "We might have bribed

Tyntie to let us out, but 't is as well not to risk getting her into

trouble. I shall tell father all about it to-morrow, and I know of a

certainty he'll not be angry. To be sure, he may scold me a little;

but"--with a low laugh--"I can soon kiss him into good humor again."

"Don't you think, Dot, it is rather of a shame,--the way you do things,

and then tell your father afterwards?" Mary asked as they walked along.

"Assuredly not," was the ready answer, "else I might not get so many

chances to 'do things,' as you call it. I never do aught that is

really wrong; I love my father far too dearly for that. But I am

young, and he is old; and that, I suppose, is why we do not think alike

about all matters. He has often said I ought to have been a boy, and I

agree with him; though I dare say I shall be a proper enough old maid

some day. Only," with a laugh, "I cannot quite imagine such a thing."

"No," said Mary, looking into Dorothy's eyes, bright as the stars that

were now being shut away by the branches of the trees in the woods they

were entering; "no--nor I. But we'd best stop our chattering and use

our eyes and ears. Heavens! what's that?" And she clutched Dot's arm

in sudden fright as a wild cry rang out directly over their heads.

"Pooh!" said Dorothy, with a laugh, "'t is but an old hoot-owl. If

you'd been in the woods as much as I, you'd not be frightened so

easily."

They came to a halt at the edge of the timber growth overlooking the

rock peak above the Sachem's Cave, and crouched among the bushes to

watch for the light, keeping a lookout as well upon the sea, for the

first signal from the ship.

And there they remained, listening to the incessant crying of the

insects in the grass and the rustling of the wind in the trees

overhead, these being mingled with the never-ceasing sound of the sea,

as the breakers of the incoming tide flung themselves against the

boulders with a quavering roar that seemed to pulse the air like great

heart-throbs.

Presently Mary whispered, "Why not let us go and stop beside Johnnie

Strings?" Then quickly, "Oh, I forgot--the way you are dressed would

make it imprudent."

"I should not care very much for Johnnie Strings," Dorothy began; but

Mary said hastily,--

"Oh, no, Dot, 'twould never do."

A long silence ensued, broken at length by Mary saying in a tone of

alarm, "Oh, Dot, whatever would we do, if your father went to speak to

you for somewhat, and should not find us in the house at this late

hour?"

"No fear of such a thing," was the confident reply. "He has made sure

long since that I am abed and asleep."

It was half-past ten of the clock when the two girls left the house;

and so they reckoned it must be now several minutes after the next hour.

"Suppose it should be far into the night before the ship comes in

sight," Mary suggested, for she was beginning to feel cramped and

uncomfortable. "Let's not wait for so long a time as that."

"No, we will not," Dorothy assented with a yawn. But the next moment

she was all alive, with her small fingers holding Mary's arm in a tight

clutch as she whispered excitedly: "Look, Mary--there it is! There was

one light, and 't is gone. Now there are the two; and there comes the

third, as Jack said."

The girls arose and stood erect in eager interest, looking out over the

water, where, several hundred yards from shore, the lights gleamed and

then disappeared. And now their eyes, accustomed to the gloom,

discerned a slim blackness, as of a man's form, appear on the highest

point of rocks above the cave; and then a soft glow of tremulous light

illumined the darkness.

While they watched this, they were startled to see a taller figure

spring from the shadows, and a second later the two seemed to melt into

one enlarged blur, as if they were struggling.

Quick as thought the boyish form beside Mary broke from the bushes and

sped with flying steps toward the peak.

"Dot--Dot--come back!" cried Mary, regardless now of who might hear

her. "Whatever are you thinking to do?"

A low but clear reply came to her from over Dorothy's shoulder.

"The lanterns--they must be put out, else Jack may be hurt!"

On, on, she flew, with no fear of the peril into which she might be

rushing,--with no heed of her unmaidenly garb. Her mind held but the

one thought,--that the lanterns must be extinguished, for danger

threatened her brother and his companions if they should seek to land

unwarned.

So absorbed were the men in their fierce wrestling that neither of them

saw nor heard the slight figure that came straight up to them, and

then, dashing at the lanterns, sent them flying into the water beneath.

Then the larger of the two, catching sight of the intruder, relaxed his

hold on the other; and Johnnie Strings, with a derisive whoop, twisted

his wiry little body from the slackened grip and sped down the rocks

and away into the night.

"You young rascal, what does all this mean?" demanded Southorn, for he

it was; and seizing the boyish shoulder firmly, he shook the slender

form.

Dorothy, although greatly overcome by agitation now that her brave deed

was accomplished, thought she recognized the voice that addressed her

so roughly, and was silent from embarrassment.

"Are you dumb?" the Englishman asked angrily, shaking her again.

"Speak up, you young rebel, or I may try what a salt-water bath will do

for the unlocking of your stubborn tongue."

"Stop shaking me, you great--brute," Dorothy gasped indignantly. "Have

you no--manners?"

At sound of the soft-toned voice, Southorn seemed to feel that he was

dealing with no yokel, as he had supposed; and now, peering closely, he

saw that the head of his prisoner was finely shaped, and the features

refined and delicate.

"If you object to rough treatment, my young friend," he said a little

more gently, "you should not put your nose into such doings as these."

But he still kept a firm hold of the arm and shoulder, as though to

stifle any idea of escape.

"I should say 't was you who deserved rough usage,--coming onto my

father's land at this hour, and putting your nose into business that

can in no wise concern you." Dorothy had by this time fully recovered

her composure, and being certain as to the completeness of her

disguise, spoke with saucy assurance.

"Your father's land!" exclaimed the young man, in evident surprise.

"Pray, who is your father?"

"A gentleman who has no great taste for stranger folk prowling about

his estate." She gave her arm and shoulder a slight twitch, as though

to loosen them from his hold. But this he would not have, although his

voice had a still milder sound as he asked, "Is your name Devereux?"

"And whether it is or not," she answered, "pray tell me what matters it

to you?"

"It matters this to me," he said quickly: "that if it is, then I'll let

you off, and will go on my way, although I don't quite like the looks

of the doings I've seen on this rock, and out there on the water."

"By the Holy Poker!" Dorothy exclaimed, bent upon keeping up the part

she had assumed. "But you talk as if you were the Lord High Cockalorum

himself! Who are you, to say what you do and do not like here, on my

father's premises?"

"Never mind who I am. Perhaps I can make more trouble for your father

and his household than you are able to understand. But answer what I

have asked, and you'll not be sorry."

Dorothy could not fail to note the earnestness with which he spoke, nor

the intent look she felt rather than saw in the dim light. But she met

all this with a mocking air and tone as she said, "Since you make it so

worth my while to be kind to my neighbors, how know you but I might see

fit to tell you an untruth, and say my name was Devereux, when it may

be Robinson, or anything else?"

"If this is your father's estate, then your name must be Devereux,"

Southorn asserted; "for the place is owned by one Joseph Devereux, as I

have been told. So there's an end to your telling me anything

misleading. And now answer me this,--know you the one who is called

Mistress Dorothy Devereux?"

Dot waited a moment before answering. A new scheme had sprung into her

quick-witted brain,--one that promised an effective means of getting

rid of his embarrassing presence, this being likely to interfere

seriously with the landing of the arms and powder, were that still in

contemplation.

She was wondering, too, what had become of Mary Broughton, and what she

was doing all this time.

"Answer me," the young Britisher repeated sharply, "do you know her?"

And he gave a shake to the arm he still held.

"You seem over-fond of shaking folk, sir," she remonstrated. "I wish

you'd let go my arm." And she pulled it impatiently.

"I will let it go at once, if you'll only tell me what I wish to know."

"And what may that be?" she asked, with an innocent _sang-froid_ that

plainly angered him.

"You are a saucy boy," he said impatiently. "You remember well enough

what I asked you. Do you know Mistress Dorothy Devereux?"

"Aye," was the quick reply; "I know her as well as you know your own

face that you see in the glass every day." She stood rubbing the arm

he had now released, and upon which his grip had been unpleasantly firm.

"Ah--then she is your sister." He had moved so as to stand directly in

front of the slight figure, whose head reached but half-way up his own

broad chest.

She looked at him for a second and then burst into laughter.

"I know you now," she said. "You must be the Britisher she told of

this morning,--the one who came here, and whom Mary Broughton

frightened so badly that he fell over and cut his head." And again the

mocking laugh came from her ready lips.

"I don't believe your sister told you any such untruth," said the

irritated young man. "I missed my footing, and fell; that was all. I

meant no rudeness, although the lady you name--Mary Broughton, did you

call her?--seemed not to believe me."

"Mary has but little taste for a redcoat," was the dry retort.

"And judging from your own tone, you share her taste," he said, now

quite good-naturedly, for he found himself taking a strong liking to

this bright, free-speaking lad.

"I? Oh, I don't know," was the careless answer. "Do you not think I

am somewhat too young to have much of an opinion upon such matters?"

He smiled, but without replying. Then Dot came closer to him and said

in a low voice, "At any rate, I am good-natured enough to say I can

show you something that you, being His Majesty's officer, had best know

about."

"What is it?" the young man asked. He was now looking around for his

hat, which, together with the bandage about his head, had fallen off

during his struggle with the pedler.

Dorothy's sharp eyes were the first to catch sight of these; and she

picked them up and handed them to him, noting with an odd feeling that

he placed the bandage inside his coat and over his heart.

"It is something you may or may not care to see," she replied. "Only

I'll warrant you'll be sorry if another reports it first; for I shall

show it to the next Britisher who comes this way."

"Very well," he said; "let me see it."

Without further parley, and suspecting a nest of concealed firearms, or

something of the like, he followed her down the rocks, going with slow

caution, while she went more rapidly and soon stood below, waiting for

him. And then, side by side, they set off inland.

Dorothy, skirting as closely as was prudent the woods where she

reckoned Mary was still hiding, took care to remark to her companion,

in a voice loud enough to reach her friend's ears, that it would not

take over ten minutes to reach their destination, and that then he had

best go his own way.