CHAPTER VIII
TELLS HOW PEGGY GAVE A WARNING
The three horses proved to be hardy and fleet; and they seemed to see almost perfectly in the dark. For almost a half hour they were kept at a free gallop, then their riders, feeling them beginning to blow, drew them down to a walk.
Turning in his saddle, George listened, but there were no sounds of pursuit, and he laughed.
“I think our little plan carried very well,” said he.
“Our plan!” It was Lieutenant Camp that spoke, and his voice contained a note of protest. “Yours, you mean; and believe me, sir, the very cleverest that I ever saw executed.”
George laughed again.
“You are giving me credit for a great deal that was purely chance,” said he, lightly. “The bolt upon the door, for instance, and the fact that the horses were not tied fast.” He turned to Peggy, who rode upon the other side of him, and added: “The element of chance is the great factor in most enterprises; don’t you think so?”
She made some reply, but in a voice so low that he did not catch the words.
“We plan as carefully as we can, we weigh and calculate every possibility that presents itself; and then when the time for action arrives, some utterly unlooked-for thing happens that brings us victory or defeat.”
He paused, expecting her to make some reply to his philosophizing; but she did not do so; steadily she sat her horse, and from the vague outline that he had of her, he fancied that she was looking straight ahead. Plainly, she desired no part in the conversation. They had kept to the Kingsbridge Road, and now pressed south as soon as their horses had recovered from their long gallop. Little was now said except upon the part of the lieutenant; he talked eagerly and largely upon the topics of interest to Loyalists. At another time George would have been vastly interested in his remarks, but now he gave them small attention.
Somehow the silence of the girl at his side piqued him; her manner was a subtle irritation. He took exception to her attitude toward him; he felt that a more friendly aspect was but his due.
Mile after mile fell behind them; they passed the long bends in the road that lay just opposite Hell Gate, and then into the straight length near Horen’s Hook. However, they had reached the junction of the Bloomingdale Road below Kip’s Bay before Peggy Camp spoke again.
“Perhaps, Herbert,” she said to her brother, “we are presuming too much upon this young gentleman’s good nature.”
“What’s that?” and the lieutenant was plainly surprised.
“He may have his own affairs to attend to,” she said. “And we should not keep him from them.”
“Oh, I say now,” protested Herbert, “that is just a trifle unfriendly, Peggy. He is going to ride with us into town.”
“It is just as Mistress Camp desires,” returned George, distantly, and sitting very stiffly in his saddle.
“It was a mere suggestion upon my part,” she said, and her voice was as cold as his own. “I have no great interest either way.”
Her brother brought his horse around until he gained her other side; and from the way the animal reared, it was plain that its rider was angry.
“What in the world ails you to-night, Peg?” he demanded heatedly. “One would think that you had been affronted. We all ride together to town. There is some business to transact.”
To this Peggy made no answer; but George, though he could make her out but dimly, knew that she was riding on with head held high, and he also felt sure that her eyes—if one could but have had a glimpse of them—bore the proud look that he had seen in them more than once before.
When they reached the line of defenses that ran westward from Corlear’s Hook, a voice challenged them out of the darkness. Lieutenant Camp rode forward to answer; and no sooner had he vanished than George felt Peggy’s horse press closer to his side.
“Sir,” she said hurriedly, in a low voice, “I must beg of you not to ride into town with us.”
“I don’t understand,” said the young man.
“It is plain that you do not,” she returned, “or you would not be so willing to go.”
He considered for a moment, his eyes trying to search her face.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you could make it clear if you had the mind.”
“It may be so,” she answered. “But I cannot do so. Even in warning you so far I fear I am doing wrong. Nevertheless you have twice been of service to me, and it’s only a poor return to tell you that you are in danger.”
“Danger!” He laughed a little. “In times like these, one is constantly in danger.”
“But not such danger as this.” He felt her hand touch his arm and noted that it was trembling. “There are some dangers that a person of courage can face and overcome. But this——” and her voice trailed away into an unintelligible quaver.
George was about to make answer when they heard the clup-clup of horses’ hoofs and the voice of Lieutenant Camp calling:
“All’s well. You may come forward.”
The girl bent toward George imploringly.
“For the last time! Will you be warned by me?”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “And I would much prefer to go on. But to do so would apparently worry you; and I have no desire to do that.”
“Go now,” she said, eagerly. “Don’t stay. I will ride forward and explain your disappearance as best I can.”
He wheeled his horse and rode back along the road; pausing at a little distance he heard the voice of Lieutenant Camp as he loudly gave the countersign; and again as the lieutenant made an angry exclamation. For a time George expected that the young officer would ride back in search of him; but this did not happen, and in a short space he heard brother and sister pass the sentries, and then all was silent.
The girl’s meaning was shadowy and mysterious; he could not conceive, even in part, what danger could threaten him in the city that did not also threaten them.
“Why, not so much, by far,” he told himself. But then in a moment came another thought. “It is possible,” he reflected, “that she fancies her brother’s known rank in the American army will serve to save him; and that I, being a stranger, would fall under suspicion.”
However, still another thought upset the preceding one.
“She heard me, only yesterday, declaring that I bore dispatches from Boston to General Putnam. That must have convinced her that I, too, am fairly well known.”
For some time he sat in the saddle pondering this puzzle but at last he gave it up.
“No matter what her meaning,” he told himself, cheerfully, “there has been no harm in doing what she requested. It is not as though the brother were unknown to me. I can pick him up at any time—to-morrow perhaps—and resume the matter just where it was broken off to-night at the inn.”
Riding back some little distance he found a road that led westward and brought him to Broadway; and then, after passing the guard, he made his way to the “King’s Arms” and went quietly to bed.