arted
within an hour, while Grant's column was to take up its march for
Philadelphia as soon as it became dark. Whatever the mystery I could
never hope to solve it loitering there; the house itself would doubtless
reveal the story, and I turned in that direction, skirting the fence, yet
exercising care, for there might still remain defenders within, behind
those green blinds, to mistake me for an enemy. I saw nothing, no sign of
life, as I circled through the trees of the orchard, and came out upon
the grassplot facing the front porch. The sun was up now, and I could
perceive each detail. There was a smashed window to the right, a green
shutter hanging dejectedly by one hinge; the great front door stood wide
open, and the body of a dead man lay across the threshold, a dark stain
of blood extending across the porch floor.

CHAPTER XIX

THE QUEEN'S RANGERS

A bullet had struck the hand rail, shattering one of the supports, and
the broad steps were scarred and splintered. The man lay face upward, his
feet inside the hallway, one side of his head crushed in. He was roughly
dressed in woolen shirt and patched smallclothes, and wore gold hoops in
his ears, his complexion dark enough for a mulatto, with hands seared and
twisted. Surely the fellow was no soldier; he appeared more to me like
one who had followed the sea. I stepped over his body, and glanced the
length of the hall. The chandelier was shattered, the glass gleaming
underfoot; the stair rail broken into a jagged splinter, and a second
man, shot through the eye, rested half upright propped against the lower
step. He was a sandy-bearded fellow, no better dressed than the one
without, but with a belt about him, containing pistol and knife. His
yellow teeth protruding gave his ghastly features a fiendish look. Beyond
him a pair of legs stuck out from behind the staircase, clad in long
cavalry boots, and above these, barely showing, the green cloth of the
Queen's Rangers. Then Grant had not gone when this attack was made, or
else he had left some men behind? I dragged the body out into the light
so I might see the face--it was the Irishman who had helped in my
capture.

I stood staring down at him, and about me into the dismantled room,
endeavoring to clear my brain and figure all this out. It was not so
difficult to conceive what had occurred, every bit of evidence pointing
to a single conclusion. Grant had searched the house for Eric, and
discovered no sig