ca," I whispered, leaning across the bench, "you are big enough
to have a--what? Guess."

"Go away, Ramsay Stanhope!" snapped Rebecca, grown mighty good of a
sudden, with glance fast on her white stomacher.

"O-ho! Crosspatch," thought I; and from no other motive than
transgressing the forbidden, I reached across to distract the attentive
goodness of the prim little baggage; but--an iron grip lifted me bodily
from the bench.

It was Eli Kirke, wry-faced, tight-lipped. He had seen all! This was
the secret of Mistress Rebecca's new-found diligence. No syllable was
uttered, but it was the awfullest silence that ever a lad heard. I was
lifted rather than led upstairs and left a prisoner in locked room with
naught to do but gnaw my conscience and gaze at the woods skirting the
crests of the inland hills.

Those rats in the attic grew noisier, and presently sounds a mighty
hallooing outside, with a blowing of hunting-horns and baying of
hounds. What ado was this in Boston, where men were only hunters of
souls and chasers of devils? The rats fell to sudden quiet, and from
the yells of the rabble crowd I could make out only "King-killers!
King-killers!" These were no Puritans shouting, but the blackguard
sailors and hirelings of the English squadron set loose to hunt down
the refugees. The shouting became a roar. Then in burst Eli Kirke's
front door. The house was suddenly filled with swearings enough to
cram his blasphemy box to the brim. There was a trampling of feet on
the stairs, followed by the crashing of overturned furniture, and the
rabble had rushed up with neither let nor hindrance and were searching
every room.

Who had turned informer on my uncle? Was I not the only royalist in
the house? Would suspicion fall on me? But questions were put to
flight by a thunderous rapping on the door. It gave as it had been
cardboard, and in tumbled a dozen ruffians with gold-lace doublets,
cockades and clanking swords.

Behind peered Eli Kirke, pale with fear, his eyes asking mine if I
knew. True as eyes can speak, mine told him that I knew as well as he.

"Body o' me! What-a-deuce? Only a little fighting sparrow of a
royalist!" cried a swaggering colt of a fellow in officer's uniform.

"No one here, lad?" demanded a second.

And I saw Eli Kirke close his eyes as in prayer.

"Sir," said I, drawing myself up on my heels, "I don't understand you.
I--am here."

They bellowed a laugh and were tumbling