And in another moment Smith and Hallisey were crashing up the mountain-side, calling out: "Hi, there! Merryfield--Oh! Merryfield, wait for us!"--as if their comrade had outstripped them on the trail. Merryfield had made use of the noise of their departure to establish himself in a tenable position under the widest crack in the floor. Now he held himself motionless, subduing even his breath. One--two--three minutes of dead silence. Then came the timorous half-whisper of a frightened child: "Will them men kill father if they find him?" "S-sh!" "Mother!" faintly ventured another little voice, "will them men kill father if they find him?" "S-sh! S-sh! I tell ye!" "Ma-ma! Will they kill my father?" This was the wail, insistent, uncontrolled, of the smallest child of all. The crackling tramp of the officers, mounting the trail, had wholly died away. The woman evidently believed all immediate danger past. "No!" she exclaimed vehemently, "they ain't goin' to lay eyes on yo' father, hair nor hide of him. Quit yer frettin'!" In a moment she spoke again: "You keep still, now, like good children, while I go out and empty these peach-stones. I'll be back in a minute. See you keep still just where you are!" Stealing noiselessly to the cellar door as the woman left the house, Merryfield saw her making for the woods, a basket on her arm. He watched her till the shadows engulfed her. Then he drew back to his own place and resumed his silent vigil. Moments passed, without a sound from the room above. Then came soft little thuds on the floor, a whimper or two, small sighs, and a slither of bare legs on bare boards. "Poor little kiddies!" thought Merryfield, "they're coiling down to sleep!" Back in the days when the Force was started, the Major had said to each recruit of them all:-- "I expect you to treat women and children at all times with every consideration." From that hour forth the principle has been grafted into the lives of the men. It is instinct now--self-acting, deep, and unconscious. No tried Trooper deliberately remembers it. It is an integral part of him, like the drawing of his breath. "I wish I could manage to spare those babies and their mother in what's to come!" Merryfield pondered as he lurked in the mould-scented dark. A quarter of an hour went by. Five minutes more. Footsteps nearing the cabin from the direction of the woods. Low voices--very low. Indistinguishable words. Then the back door opened. Two persons entered, and all that they now uttered was clear. "It was them that the dog heard," said a man's voice. "Get me my rifle and all my ammunition. I'll go to Maryland. I'll get a job on that stone quarry near Westminster. I'll send some money as soon as I'm paid." "But you won't start _to-night_!" exclaimed the wife.