The latter stood with the untasted dram half way to his gaping mouth, the other was as motionless, save as his face expressed successively astonishment, anger, and exultation. “Colonel Ethan Allen,” he said at last, emphasizing the title. “Most happy to receive a call from so distinguished a person. A very fortunate meeting.” Then changing his tone of mock politeness to one of command: “You are my prisoner. Men, lay hold of him! A hundred pounds are offered for his head! It is Ethan Allen! Lay hold of him, I tell you!” There was a reluctant stir among the men. One advanced toward the corner near the fireplace where the guns were set. With deliberate celerity Allen drew his hands from the skirts of his coat, a cocked pistol in each, and, with one of them, he covered the man skulking towards the guns. “The first man that draws a pistol or raises a gun gets a bullet through his carcass,” he said with authority. At Allen’s first words Seth had mounted the ladder and as quickly reappeared with his gun. The movement was seen in the dancing shadows, and he was covered by the other pistol, which was lowered as he was distinguished to be helping a woman and child to mount to the chamber. “Down with your gun over there! Oh, it is our friend Beeman! All right!” Then Allen called in a voice that made the pewter dishes ring on their shelves: “Come in, men!” The door swung violently open, and Job Carpenter, with all the arms-bearing men of the wide neighborhood, to the number of a dozen, came marching in, in Indian file, with rifle or smooth-bore at a trail. In the rear was Nathan, unarmed, but eager to see all that should transpire. Felton and Graves lost their bold demeanor, yet held their places, while their men slunk to the farther side of the room in dumb affright, save Jenkins, the cook, who, dodging this side and that of Allen’s burly form, hovered near his frying-pans in a divided fear for his own safety and that of his pork. “Keep every one of these men under close guard, my boys,” Allen commanded, “especially these two chief offenders. Now, Mr. Felton, perhaps it is made plain to you that I am not your prisoner, and that the gods of the valleys are not the gods of the hills. Behold how riches take to themselves wings and fly away even before they are possessed. In witness whereof, consider the hundred pounds offered by your Governor for an honest man. No wonder he longs for the sight of one, with such a pack of thieves and land jobbers as he has about him.” “An honest man?” cried Felton, trembling with rage. “A ruffian! A rioter! A defier of law!” and he poured forth a torrent of opprobrious names, and a full measure of curses, till out of breath.