“Yes, I am, and that perhaps is why I abhor superstition,” Rhoda spoke in all seriousness. “One of my ancestors was accused of witchcraft, but fortunately the delusion ended before she was executed by the fanatics who hounded the poor innocent creatures to their death. Hark! What is that?” There was a sound of running feet; of shots fired; of sudden cries. The two girls clung close together, and Betty hurried to the door, while the house servants gathered around, quaking with fear. Presently from out of the gloom a dark figure staggered toward them and, stumbling, fell at their feet; then another rushed past them into the house. He blew out the candle Betty held and disappeared. Outside was a clatter and a clamor. A swearing, threatening band of redcoats surrounded the house. For a moment the three women stood transfixed with horror: then Lettice sprang indoors and blew a shrill whistle which brought from the quarters those negroes who had not gone into hiding at the approach of the soldiers. Their appearance added to the rage of the enemy. The leader struck a light, and taking the candle from Betty’s nerveless hand he relighted it. “Aha, some pretty girls!” cried out one of the men behind him. “We’ll find the vile deserter, and then we’ll have some sport with the ladies, eh, boys? Here’s my choice.” And he seized Rhoda, who shrank back with a faint moan. This but added to the man’s delight and drew her nearer. But at this moment the prostrate man on the porch, who by painful effort had dragged himself to the sill of the door, feebly raised the pistol he held, fired, and Rhoda was free to rush out of the open door into the darkness. Those inside were sobered down. “Here, men, search the house,” said the leader, sternly. “Fire on any one who dares to stand in the way.” “What shall we do! What shall we do!” Lettice moaned in despair. But Betty had rushed upstairs to her baby, and Rhoda was not in sight. The figure by the door had crawled out into the gloom again. How many of the enemy might be outside Lettice could not determine, and she stood trembling, daring neither to leave the house nor to follow the men who had gone to the upper rooms. Finally she ventured out upon the porch. Near the door Rhoda crouched, and in her lap rested the head of the wounded man whose shot had felled her assailant. She was murmuring incoherent words. Lettice drew near. “Rhoda, Rhoda,” she whispered, “who is it?” “Oh, Lettice! Oh, Lettice, he is dying!” she cried in a shaken voice. “It is Jamie! Jamie!” Lettice dropped on her knees by the side of the dear lad who lay very still. Lettice lifted his hand and held it between her own, her tears falling fast. She did not heed the tread of the men who returned from their fruitless search. “The miserable wretch has escaped us somehow,” as in a dream she heard one say. “This is the second we have lost this week.” He leaned over and touched Lettice’s cheek. “Get up here, girl. I want to look at you,” he said.