The Northern Iron. George A. Birmingham
outside. The yeomen, summoned from Ballintoy, had arrived at Dunseveric House. They were laughing, talking, and singing as they rode, a disorderly mob of horsemen rather than a troop of soldiers. After a few minutes they rode past the window again. Captain Twinely was at their head. Ten or twelve yards in front of him, as if disdainful of his company, rode Lord Dunseveric and Maurice.
They were wrapped in long horsemen’s cloaks, for the rain beat down on them. The wind was rising, and blew in strong gusts. The sun had set and the evening was beginning to darken. Neal ran down to the hall, seized his coat and stick, and went out. The horsemen moved along the avenue at a steady trot. Neal saw them turn to the right and go along the road which led to the manse and the meeting-house. He started to run across the fields. He hoped to reach the manse and warn his father before the soldiers arrived at the meeting-house. He ran fast, choosing the shortest and easiest way, avoiding boggy patches of ground which would have checked his progress. After a while, from a point of vantage, he was able to catch a glimpse of the road. He noted that he was level with the yeomen, and he knew that from the point where he saw them the road took a wide curve inland. He calculated that by running fast he would be able to cross it in front of the troop, and by keeping along the cliffs would be able to reach the manse before the soldiers did. He sped forward. Suddenly, as he descended the hill to the road, he became aware of two figures crouching behind the bank which divided the road from the field. He was dimly aware that they were women. He did not look carefully at them. His eyes were fixed on the horsemen against whom he was racing. He gained the edge of the field and sprang upon the bank. He heard his name called softly.
“Neal, Neal, Neal Ward.”
Then somewhat louder by another voice.
“Mr. Neal, come and help us.”
He recognised Una’s voice and then that of the Comtesse. He had no time to think what they wanted or how they came to be crouching in a damp ditch in the rain while the evening darkened over them. He leaped from the bank, crossed the road, and raced off again towards his father’s house.
He arrived at the door, breathless, but sure that he was in good time. He burst into the sitting-room and found his father and uncle, their lamp already lighted, bending over a pile of papers which lay before them on the table.
“The soldiers, the yeomen, are on their way here,” he gasped.
Micah Ward started to his feet.
“What do you say?”
“The yeomen are on their way to the meetinghouse. They are going to search for arms, for cannon, which they say are concealed there.”
Micah Ward stood stock still. His body seemed to have become suddenly rigid. His face grew quite white. Donald, leaning back in his chair, smiled slightly.
“So,” he said, “they have begun. Are there cannon there, brother?”
“Yes, there are,” said Micah, slowly. “Four six-pounders. They belonged to the Volunteers. We kept them. We thought they might be useful some day.”
“Ah,” said Donald, “it’s a pity. We shall have the trouble of re-capturing them. Come, let us go down to the meeting-house. I should like to see these terrible yeomen.”
“Some one has given them information,” said Micah. He was silent for a minute. Then he muttered as if to himself—
“Some one has informed against us. Some one has brought this evil upon us. Who has done this thing? Who is our secret enemy?”
“Come,” said Donald, “don’t stand muttering there.”
But Micah did not heed him. Raising both hands above his head, and looking upward, he spoke slowly, clearly—
“May the curse of the Lord God of Israel light on the man who has informed against us. May he be smitten with madness and blindness and astonishment of heart. May he grope at the noonday as the blind gropeth in the darkness. May his life hang in doubt before him. May he fear day and night, and have none assurance of his life. May he say in the morning—‘Would God it were even! And at even—‘Would God it were morning!’ for the fear of his heart wherewith he shall fear and the sight of his eyes which he shall see.”
“That,” said Donald, “is a mighty fine curse. I’m darned if I ever heard a more comprehensive kind of curse. We had a God-forsaken half-breed in our company, under General Greene, who could curse quite a bit, and he never came near that curse. But I reckon that a good deal of it will have to be wasted. There isn’t a man living who could stand it for long. Still, if you name the man for us, I’ll do the best I can with him. I may not be able to work the blindness and the groping just as you’d wish, but I’ll undertake that his life hangs in doubt before him for a bit.”
Micah Ward, without seeming to hear his brother’s speech, stalked bare-headed from the room and led the way to the meeting-house.
The yeomen were marching up the hill from the main road. They sang a song with a ribald chorus, such as men sing in a tavern when they have drunk deep. Lord Dunseveric and Maurice had already reached the door of the meeting-house, and sat silent on their horses.
“Mr. Ward,” said Lord Dunseveric, “will you give me the keys and save me from the necessity of breaking open the door? I see Neal with you. I suppose he has told you what we have come to do?”
“I shall never render the keys to you,” said Micah Ward. “Do the work of scorn and oppression that you intend, but do not ask me to aid you.”
The yeomen, still singing, straggled up while Lord Dunseveric and Micah Ward spoke. Suddenly their song ceased, and they listened in a silence of sheer amazement while Donald Ward addressed their captain.
“Say”—his voice was cold, clear, and contemptuous—“do you call yourself a captain? And is this your notion of discipline? I guess, young fellow, if we’d had you with General Greene in Carolina we’d have combed you out and flogged the drunken ragamuffins you’re supposed to be commanding. But I reckon you’re just the meanest kind of Britisher there is, that kind that swaggers and runs away.”
“Seize that man,” said Captain Twinely. “Tie him up. Flog him. Cut the life out of him.”
Lord Dunseveric touched his horse with the spur and rode forward. “Captain Twinely, I told you I should have no flogging here. I mean to be obeyed. And you, sir, you are a stranger here. Who are you?”
“This,” said Micah Ward, laying his hand on his brother’s arm, “is my brother.”
“Captain Twinely, dismount two of your men. Let them conduct Mr. Ward and his brother back to the manse and mount guard at the door. Maurice, tie your horse to the tree yonder, and go with them. See that no incivility is used. When they are safe in the manse you can return here.”
Neal walked to the rear of the troop, and stood at the side of the road near the wall, while his father and uncle were marched away under charge of two troopers and Maurice St. Clair.
“Sergeant,” said Captain Twinely, “take four men and force this door.”
Neal heard his name called in a low voice by some one near him.
“Neal, Neal, Neal Ward.”
It was Una’s voice. His father and uncle had passed down the road. The yeomen were eagerly watching their comrades’ attempts to force the door.
Neal stepped over the low stone wall. He felt a hand grasp his and heard Una speak again.
“Neal, stay with us. I’m frightened.”
A low musical laugh followed, and then the voice of the Comtesse—
“You are a most ungallant cavalier, Mr. Neal. You left us alone in one ditch this evening already. You really must not leave us in another.”
The effort to force the door of the meeting-house was unsuccessful.
“Put