Anxious, she hovers o'er the web the while,
Reads, as it grows, thy figured story there;
Now she explains the texture with a smile,
And now the woof interprets with a tear.
Fawcett.
All Maud's feelings were healthful and natural. She had no exaggerated
sentiments, and scarcely art enough to control or to conceal any of the
ordinary impulses of her heart. We are not about to relate a scene,
therefore, in which a long-cherished but hidden miniature of the young
man is to play a conspicuous part, and to be the means of revealing to
two lovers the state of their respective hearts; but one of a very
different character. It is true, Maud had endeavoured to make, from
memory, one or two sketches of "Bob's" face; but she had done it
openly, and under the cognizance of the whole family. This she might
very well do, indeed, in her usual character of a sister, and excite no
comments. In these efforts, her father and mother, and Beulah, had
uniformly pronounced her success to be far beyond their hopes; but
Maud, herself, had thrown them all aside, half-finished, dissatisfied
with her own labours. Like the author, whose fertile imagination
fancies pictures that defy his powers of description, her pencil ever
fell far short of the face that her memory kept so constantly in view.
This sketch wanted animation, that gentleness, another fire, and a
fourth candour; in short, had Maud begun a thousand all would have been
deficient, in her eyes, in some great essential of perfection. Still,
she had no secret about her efforts, and half-a-dozen of these very
sketches lay uppermost in her portfolio, when she spread it, and its
contents, before the eyes of the original.
Major Willoughby thought Maud had never appeared more beautiful than as
she moved about making her little preparations for the exhibition.
Pleasure heightened her colour; and there was such a mixture of frank,
sisterly regard, in every glance of her eye, blended, however, with
sensitive feeling, and conscious womanly reserve, as made her a
thousand times--measuring amounts by the young man's sensations--more
interesting than he had ever seen her. The lamp gave but an indifferent
light for a gallery, but it was sufficient to betray Maud's smiles, and
blushes, and each varying emotion of her charming countenance.
"Now, Bob," she said, opening her portfolio, with all her youthful
frankness and confidence, "you know well enough I am not one of those
old masters of whom you used to talk so much, but your own pupil--the
work of your own hands; and if you find more faults than you have
expected, you will have the goodness to remember that the master has
deserted his peaceful pursuits to go a campaigning--there--that is a
caricature of your own countenance, staring you in the face, as a
preface!"
"This is like, I should think--was it done from memory, dear Maud?"
"How else should it be done? All our entreaties have never been able to
persuade you to send us even a miniature. You are wrong in this, Bob"--
by no accident did Maud now ever call the major, Robert, though Beulah
often did. There was a desperate sort of familiarity in the _Bob_,
that she could easily adopt; but the 'Robert' had a family sound that
she disliked; and yet a more truly feminine creature than Maud Meredith
did not exist--"You are wrong, Bob; for mother actually pines to
possess your picture, in some shape or other. It was this wish that
induced me to attempt these things."
"And why has no one of them ever been finished?--Here are six or eight
beginnings, and all, more or less, like, I should think, and not one of
them more than half done. Why have I been treated so cavalierly, Miss
Maud?"
The fair artist's colour deepened a little; but her smile was quite as
sweet as it was saucy, as she replied--
"Girlish caprice, I suppose. I like neither of them; and of that which
a woman dislikes, she will have none. To be candid, however, I hardly
think there is one of them all that does you justice."
"No?--what fault have you to find with this? This might be worked up to
something very natural."
"It would be _a_ natural, then--it wants expression, fearfully."
"And this, which is still better. That might be finished while I am
here, and I will give you some sittings."
"Even mother dislikes _that_--there is too much of the Major of
Foot in it. Mr. Woods says it is a martial picture."
"And ought not a soldier to look like a soldier? To me, now, that seems
a capital beginning."
"It is not what mother, or Beulah--or father--or even any of us wants.
It is too full of Bunker's Hill. Your friends desire to see you as you
appear to _them_; not as you appear to your enemies."
"Upon my word, Maud, you have made great advances in the art! This is a
view of the Knoll, and the dam--and here is another of the mill, and
the water-fall--all beautifully done, and in water-colours, too. What
is this?--Have you been attempting a sketch of yourself!--The glass
must have been closely consulted, my fair coquette, to enable you to do
this!"
The blood had rushed into Maud's face, covering it with a rich tell-
tale mantle, when her companion first alluded to the half-finished
miniature he held in his hand; then her features resembled ivory, as
the revulsion of feeling, that overcame her confusion, followed. For
some little time she sate, in breathless stillness, with her looks cast
upon the floor, conscious that Robert Willoughby was glancing from her
own face to the miniature, and from the miniature to her face again,
making his observations and comparisons. Then she ventured to raise her
eyes timidly towards his, half-imploringly, as if to beseech him to
proceed to something else. But the young man was too much engrossed
with the exceedingly pretty sketch he held in his hand, to understand
her meaning, or to comply with her wishes.
"This is yourself, Maud!" he cried--"though in a strange sort of
dress--why have you spoilt so beautiful a thing, by putting it in this
masquerade?"
"It is not myself--it is a copy of--a miniature I possess."
"A miniature you possess!--Of whom can you possess so lovely a
miniature, and I never see it?"
A faint smile illumined the countenance of Maud, and the blood began to
return to her cheeks. She stretched her hand over to the sketch, and
gazed on it, with intense feeling, until the tears began to stream from
her eyes.
"Maud--dear, _dearest_ Maud--have I said that which pains you?--I
do not understand all this, but I confess there are secrets to which I
can have no claim to be admitted--"
"Nay, Bob, this is making too much of what, after all, must sooner or
later be spoken of openly among us. I believe that to be a copy of a
miniature of my mother."
"Of mother, Maud--you are beside yourself--it has neither her features,
expression, nor the colour of her eyes. It is the picture of a far
handsomer woman, though mother is still pretty; and it is perfection!"
"I mean of _my_ mother--of Maud Yeardley; the wife of my father,
Major Meredith."
This was said with a steadiness that surprised our heroine herself,
when she came to think over all that had passed, and it brought the
blood to her companion's heart, in a torrent.
"This is strange!" exclaimed Willoughby, after a short pause. "And
_my_ mother--_our_ mother has given you the original, and told
you this? I did not believe she could muster the resolution necessary
to such an act."
"She has not. You know, Bob, I am now of age; and my father, a month
since, put some papers in my hand, with a request that I would read
them. They contain a marriage settlement and other things of that sort,
which show I am mistress of more money than I should know what to do
with, if it were not for dear little Evert--but, with such a precious
being to love, one never can have too much of anything. With the papers
were many trinkets, which I suppose father never looked at. This
beautiful miniature was among the last; and I feel certain, from some
remarks I ventured to make, mother does not know of its existence."
As Maud spoke, she drew the original from her bosom, and placed it in
Robert Willoughby's hands. When this simple act was performed, her mind
seemed relieved; and she waited, with strong natural interest, to hear
Robert Willoughby's comments.
"This, then, Maud, was your _own_--your _real_ mother!" the
young man said, after studying the miniature, with a thoughtful
countenance, for near a minute. "It is _like_ her--like you."
"Like _her_, Bob?--How can you know anything or that?--I suppose
it to be my mother, because I think it like myself, and because it is
not easy to say who else it can be. But you cannot know anything of
this?"
"You are mistaken, Maud--I remember both your parents well--it could
not be otherwise, as they were the bosom friends of my own. You will
remember that I am now eight-and-twenty, and that I had seen seven of
these years when you were born. Was my first effort in arms never
spoken of in your presence?"
"Never--perhaps it was not a subject for me to hear, if it were in any
manner connected with my parents."
"You are right--that must be the reason it has been kept from your
ears."
"Surely, surely, I am old enough to hear it _now_--_you_ will
conceal nothing from me, Bob?"
"If I would, I could not, now. It is too late, Maud. You know the
manner in which Major Meredith died?--"
"He fell in battle, I have suspected," answered the daughter, in a
suppressed, doubtful tone--"for no one has ever directly told me even
that."
"He did, and I was at his side. The French and savages made an assault
on us, about an hour earlier than this, and our two fathers rushed to
the pickets to repel it--I was a reckless boy, anxious even at that
tender age to see a fray, and was at their side. Your father was one of
the first that fell; but Joyce and _our_ father beat the Indians
back from his body, and saved it from mutilation. Your mother was
buried in the same grave, and then you came to us, where our have been
ever since."
Maud's tears flowed fast, and yet it was not so much in grief as in a
gush of tenderness she could hardly explain to herself. Robert
Willoughby understood her emotions, and perceived that he might
proceed.
"I was old enough to remember both your parents well--I was a
favourite, I believe, with, certainly was much petted by, both--I
remember your birth, Maud, and was suffered to carry you in my arms,
ere you were a week old."
"Then you have known me for an impostor from the beginning, Bob--must
have often thought of me as such!"
"I have known you for the daughter of Lewellen Meredith, certainly; and
not for a world would I have you the real child of Hugh Willoughby--"
"Bob!" exclaimed Maud, her heart beating violently, a rush of feeling
nearly overcoming her, in which alarm, consciousness, her own secret,
dread of something wrong, and a confused glimpse of the truth, were all
so blended, as nearly to deprive her, for the moment, of the use of her
senses.
It is not easy to say precisely what would have followed this tolerably
explicit insight into the state of the young man's feelings, had not an
outcry on the lawn given the major notice that his presence was needed
below. With a few words of encouragement to Maud, first taking the
precaution to extinguish the lamp, lest its light should expose her to
a shot in passing some of the open loops, he sprang towards the stairs,
and was at his post again, literally within a minute. Nor was he a
moment too soon. The alarm was general, and it was understood an
assault was momentarily expected.
The situation of Robert Willoughby was now tantalizing in the extreme.
Ignorant of what was going on in front, he saw no enemy in the rear to
oppose, and was condemned to inaction, at a moment when he felt that,
by training, years, affinity to the master of the place, and all the
usual considerations, he ought to be in front, opposed to the enemy. It
is probable he would have forgotten his many cautions to keep close,
had not Maud appeared in the library, and implored him to remain
concealed, at least until there was the certainty his presence was
necessary elsewhere.
At that instant, every feeling but those connected with the danger, was
in a degree forgotten. Still, Willoughby had enough consideration for
Maud to insist on her joining her mother and Beulah, in the portion of
the building where the absence of external windows rendered their
security complete, so long as the foe could be kept without the
palisades. In this he succeeded, but not until he had promised, again
and again, to be cautious in not exposing himself at any of the
windows, the day having now fairly dawned, and particularly not to let
it be known in the Hut that he was present until it became
indispensable.
The major felt relieved when Maud had left him. For her, he had no
longer any immediate apprehensions, and he turned all his faculties to
the sounds of the assault which he supposed to be going on in front. To
his surprise, however, no discharges of fire-arms succeeded; and even
the cries, and orders, and calling from point to point, that are a
little apt to succeed an alarm in an irregular garrison, had entirely
ceased; and it became doubtful whether the whole commotion did not
proceed from a false alarm. The Smashes, in particular, whose
vociferations for the first few minutes had been of a very decided
kind, were now mute; and the exclamations of the women and children had
ceased.
Major Willoughby was too good a soldier to abandon his post without
orders, though bitterly did he regret the facility with which he had
consented to accept so inconsiderable a command. He so far disregarded
his instructions, however, as to place his whole person before a
window, in order to reconnoitre; for it was now broad daylight, though
the sun had not yet risen. Nothing rewarded this careless exposure; and
then it flashed upon his mind that, as the commander of a separate
detachment, he had a perfect right to employ any of his immediate
subordinates, either as messengers or scouts. His choice of an agent
was somewhat limited, it is true, lying between Mike and the Plinys;
after a moment of reflection, he determined to choose the former.
Mike was duly relieved from his station at the door, the younger Pliny
being substituted for him, and he was led into the library. Here he
received hasty but clear orders from the major how he was to proceed,
and was thrust, rather than conducted from the room, in his superior's
haste to hear the tidings. Three or four minutes might have elapsed,
when an irregular volley of musketry was heard in front; then succeeded
an answering discharge, which sounded smothered and distant. A single
musket came from the garrison a minute later, and then Mike rushed into
the library, his eyes dilated with a sort of wild delight, dragging
rather than carrying his piece after him.
"The news!" exclaimed the major, as soon as he got a glimpse of his
messenger. "What mean these volleys, and how comes on my father in
front?"
"Is it what do they mane?" answered Mike. "Well, there's but one maning
to powther and ball, and that's far more sarious than shillelah wor-r-
k. If the rapscallions didn't fire a whole plathoon, as serjeant Joyce
calls it, right at the Knoll, my name is not Michael O'Hearn, or my
nature one that dales in giving back as good as I get."
"But the volley came first from the house--why did my father order his
people to make the first discharge?"
"For the same r'ason that he didn't. Och! there was a big frown on his
f'atures, when he heard the rifles and muskets; and Mr. Woods never
pr'ached more to the purpose than the serjeant himself, ag'in that
same. But to think of them rapscallions answering a fire that was ag'in
orders! Not a word did his honour say about shooting any of them, and
they just pulled their triggers on the house all the same as if it had
been logs growing in senseless and uninhabited trees, instead of a
rational and well p'apled abode. Och! arn't they vagabonds!"
"If you do not wish to drive me mad, man, tell me clearly what has
past, that I may understand you."
"Is it understand that's wanting?--Lord, yer honour, if ye can
understand that Misther Strhides, that's yon, ye'll be a wise man. He
calls hisself a 'son of the poor'atin's,' and poor 'ating it must have
been, in the counthry of his faders, to have produced so lane and
skinny a baste as that same. The orders was as partic'lar as tongue of
man could utter, and what good will it all do?--Ye're not to fire, says
serjeant Joyce, till ye all hear the wor-r-d; and the divil of a wor-r-
d did they wait for; but blaze away did they, jist becaase a knot of
savages comes on to them rocks ag'in, where they had possession all
yesterday afthernoon; and sure it is common enough to breakfast where a
man sups."
"You mean to say that the Indians have reappeared on the rocks, and
that some of Strides's men fired at them, without orders?--Is that the
history of the affair?"
"It's jist that, majjor; and little good, or little har-r-m, did it do.
Joel, and his poor'atin's, blazed away at 'em, as if they had been so
many Christians--and 'twould have done yer heart good to have heard the
serjeant belabour them with hard wor-r-ds, for their throuble. There's
none of the poor'atin' family in the serjeant, who's a mighty man wid
his tongue!"
"And the savages returned the volley--which explains the distant
discharge I heard."
"Anybody can see, majjor, that ye're yer father's son, and a souldier
bor-r-n. Och! who would of t'ought of that, but one bred and bor-r-n in
the army? Yes; the savages sent back as good as they got, which was
jist not'in' at all, seem' that no one is har-r-m'd."
"And the single piece that followed--there was one discharge, by
itself?"
Mike opened his mouth with a grin that might have put either of the
Plinys to shame, it being rather a favourite theory with the
descendants of the puritans--or "poor'atin's," as the county Leitrim-
man called Joel and his set--that the Irishman was more than a match
for any son of Ham at the Knoll, in the way of capacity about this
portion of the human countenance. The major saw that there was a good
deal of self-felicitation in the expression of Mike's visage, and he
demanded an explanation in more direct terms.
"'Twas I did it, majjor, and 'twas as well fired a piece as ye've ever
hear-r-d in the king's sarvice. Divil bur-r-n me, if I lets Joel get
any such advantage over me, as to have a whole battle to himself. No--
no--as soon as I smelt his Yankee powther, and could get my own musket
cock'd, and pointed out of the forthifications, I lets 'em have it, as
if it had been so much breakfast ready cooked to their hands. 'Twas
well pointed, too; for I'm not the man to shoot into a fri'nd's
countenance."
"And you broke the orders for a reason no better than the fact that
Strides had broken them before?"
"Divil a bit, majjor--Joel had _broken_ the orders, ye see and
that settled the matter. The thing that is once broken is broken, and
wor-r-ds can't mend it, any more than for bearin' to fire a gun will
mend it."
By dint of cross-questioning, Robert Willoughby finally succeeded in
getting something like an outline of the truth from Mike. The simple
facts were, that the Indians had taken possession of their old bivouac,
as soon as the day dawned, and had commenced their preparations for
breakfast, when Joel, the miller, and a few of that set, in a paroxysm
of valour, had discharged a harmless volley at them; the distance
rendering the attempt futile. This fire had been partially returned,
the whole concluding with the _finale_ from the Irishman's gun, as
has been related. As it was now too light to apprehend a surprise, and
the ground in front of the palisade had no very dangerous covers,
Robert Willoughby was emboldened to send one of the Plinys to request
an interview with his father. In a few minutes the latter appeared,
accompanied by Mr. Woods.
"The same party has reappeared, and seems disposed to occupy its old
position near the mill," said the captain, in answer to his son's
inquiries. "It is difficult to say what the fellows have in view; and
there are moments when I think there are more or less whites among
them. I suggested as much to Strides, chaplain; and I thought the
fellow appeared to receive the notion as if he thought it might be
true."
"Joel is a little of an enigma to me, captain Willoughby," returned the
chaplain; "sometimes seizing an idea like a cat pouncing upon a rat,
and then coquetting with it, as the same cat will play with a mouse,
when it has no appetite for food."
"Och! he's a precious poor'atin'!" growled Mike, from his corner of the
room.
"If whites are among the savages, why should they not make themselves
known?" demanded Robert Willoughby. "Your character, sir, is no secret;
and they must be acquainted with their own errand here."
"I will send for Strides, and get his opinion a little more freely,"
answered the captain, after a moment of deliberation. "You will
withdraw, Bob; though, by leaving your door a little ajar, the
conversation will reach you; and prevent the necessity of a
repetition."
As Robert Willoughby was not unwilling to hear what the overseer might
have to say in the present state of things, he did not hesitate about
complying, withdrawing into his own room as requested, and leaving the
door ajar, in a way to prevent suspicion of his presence, as far as
possible. But, Joel Strides, like all bad men, ever suspected the
worst. The innocent and pure of mind alone are without distrust; while
one constituted morally, like the overseer, never permitted his
thoughts to remain in the tranquillity that is a fruit of confidence.
Conscious of his own evil intentions, his very nature put on armour
against the same species of machinations in others, as the hedge-hog
rolls himself into a ball, and thrusts out his quills, at the sight of
the dog. Had not captain Willoughby been one of those who are slow to
see evil, he might have detected something wrong in Joel's feelings, by
the very first glance he cast about him, on entering the library.
In point of fact, Strides' thoughts had not been idle since the
rencontre of the previous night. Inquisitive, and under none of the
usual restraints of delicacy, he had already probed all he dared
approach on the subject; and, by this time, had become perfectly
assured that there was some mystery about the unknown individual whom
he had met in his master's company. To own the truth, Joel did not
suspect that major Willoughby had again ventured so far into the lion's
den; but he fancied that some secret agent of the crown was at the Hut,
and that the circumstance offered a fair opening for helping the
captain down the ladder of public favour, and to push himself up a few
of its rounds. He was not sorry, therefore, to be summoned to this
conference, hoping it might lead to some opening for farther
discoveries.
"Sit down, Strides"--said captain Willoughby, motioning towards a chair
so distant from the open door of the bed-room, and so placed as to
remove the danger of too close a proximity--"Sit down--I wish to
consult you about the state of things towards the mills. To me it seems
as If there were more pale-faces than red-skins among our visitors."
"That's not onlikely, captain--the people has got to be greatly given
to paintin' and imitatin', sin' the hatchet has been dug up ag'in the
British. The tea-boys were all in Indian fashion."
"True; but, why should white men assume such a disguise to come to the
Knoll? I am not conscious of having an enemy on earth who could
meditate harm to me or mine."
Alas! poor captain. That a man at sixty should yet have to learn that
the honest, and fair-dealing, and plain-dealing, and affluent--for
captain Willoughby was affluent in the eyes of those around him--that
such a man should imagine he was without enemies, was to infer that the
Spirit of Darkness had ceased to exercise his functions among men. Joel
knew better, though he did not perceive any necessity, just then, for
letting the fact reach the ears of the party principally concerned.
"A body might s'pose the captain was pop'lar, if any man is pop'lar,"
answered the overseer; "nor do I know that visiters in paint betoken
onpopularity to a person in these times more than another. May I ask
why the captain consaits these Injins a'n't Injins? To me, they have a
desperate savage look, though I a'n't much accustomed to red skin
usages."
"Their movements are too open, and yet too uncertain, for warriors of
the tribes. I think a savage, by this time, would have made up his mind
to act as friend or foe."
Joel seemed struck with the idea; and the expression of his
countenance, which on entering had been wily, distrustful and prying,
suddenly changed to that of deep reflection.
"Has the captain seen anything else, partic'lar, to confirm this idee?"
he asked.
"Their encampment, careless manner of moving, and unguarded exposure of
their persons, are all against their being Indians."
"The messenger they sent across the meadow, yesterday, _seemed_ to
me to be a Mohawk?"
"He was. Of _his_ being a real red-skin there can be no question.
But he could neither speak nor understand English. The little that
passed between us was in Low Dutch. Our dialogue was short; for,
apprehensive of treachery, I brought it to a close sooner than I might
otherwise have done."
"Yes; treachery is a cruel thing," observed the conscientious Joel; "a
man can't be too strongly on his guard ag'in it. Does the captain
ra'ally calcilate on defending the house, should a serious attempt be
brought forward for the day?"
"Do I! That is an extraordinary question, Mr. Strides. Why have I built
in this mode, if I have no such intention?--why palisaded?--why armed
and garrisoned, if not in earnest?"
"I s'posed all this might have been done to prevent a surprise, but not
in any hope of standin' a siege. I should be sorry to see all our women
and children shut up under one roof, if the inimy came ag'in us, in
airnest, with fire and sword."
"And I should be sorry to see them anywhere else. But, this is losing
time. My object in sending for you, Joel, was to learn your opinion
about the true character of our visiters. Have you any opinion, or
information to give me, on that point?"
Joel placed his elbow on his knee, and his chin in the palm of his
hand, and pondered on what had been suggested, with seeming good-will,
and great earnestness.
"If any one could be found venturesome enough to go out with a flag,"
he at length remarked, "the whole truth might be come at, in a few
minutes."
"And who shall I employ? Cheerfully would I go myself, were such a step
military, or at all excusable in one in my situation."
"If the likes of myself will sarve yer honour's turn," put in Mike,
promptly, and yet with sufficient diffidence as regarded his views of
his own qualifications--"there'll be nobody to gainsay that same; and
it isn't wilcome that I nade tell you, ye'll be to use me as ye would
yer own property."
"I hardly think Mike would answer," observed Joel, not altogether
without a sneer. "He scurce knows an Indian from a white man; when it
comes to the paint, it would throw him into dreadful confusion."
"If ye thinks that I am to be made to believe in any more Ould Nicks,
Misther Strhides, then ye're making a mistake in my nature. Let but the
captain say the word, and I'll go to the mill and bring in a grist of
them same, or l'ave my own body for toll."
"I do not doubt you in the least, Mike," captain Willoughby mildly
observed; "but there will be no occasion, just now, of your running any
such risks. I shall be able to find other truce-bearers."
"It seems the captain has his man in view," Joel said, keenly eyeing
his master. "Perhaps 'tis the same I saw out with him last night.
That's a reliable person, I do s'pose."
"You have hit the nail on the head. It was the man who was out last
night, at the same time I was out myself, and his name is Joel
Strides."
"The captain's a little musical, this morning--waal--if go I must, as
there was two on us out, let us go to these savages together. I saw
enough of _that_ man, to know he is reliable; and if he'll go,
_I_'ll go."
"Agreed"--said Robert Willoughby, stepping into the library--"I take
you at your word, Mr. Strides; you and I will run what risks there may
be, in order to relieve this family from its present alarming state."
The captain was astounded, though he knew not whether to be displeased
or to rejoice. As for Mike, his countenance expressed great
dissatisfaction; for he ever fancied things were going wrong so long as
Joel obtained his wishes. Strides, himself, threw a keen glance at the
stranger, recognised him at a glance, and had sufficient self-command
to conceal his discovery, though taken completely by surprise. The
presence of the major, however, immediately removed all his objections
to the proposed expedition; since, should the party prove friendly to
the Americans, he would be safe on his own account; or, should it prove
the reverse, a king's officer could not fail to be a sufficient
protection.
"The gentleman's a total stranger to me," Joel hypocritically resumed;
"but as the captain has belief in him, I must have the same. I am ready
to do the ar'nd, therefore, as soon as it is agreeable."
"This is well, captain Willoughby," put in the major, in order to
anticipate any objections from his father; "and the sooner a thing of
this sort is done, the better will it be for all concerned. I am ready
to proceed this instant; and I take it this worthy man--I think you
called him Strides--is quite as willing."
Joel signified his assent; and the captain, perceiving no means of
retreat, was fain to yield. He took the major into the bed-room,
however, and held a minute's private discourse, when he returned, and
bade the two go forth together.
"Your companion has his instructions, Joel," the captain observed, as
they left the library together; "and you will follow his advice. Show
the white flag as soon as you quit the gate; if they are true warriors,
it must be respected."
Robert Willoughby was too intent on business, and too fearful of the
reappearance and reproachful looks of Maud, to delay. He had passed the
court, and was at the outer gate, before any of the garrison even noted
his appearance among them. Here, indeed, the father's heart felt a
pang; and, but for his military pride, the captain would gladly have
recalled his consent. It was too late, however; and, squeezing his
hand, he suffered his son to pass outward. Joel followed steadily, as
to appearances, though not without misgivings as to what might be the
consequences to himself and his growing family.