I stole a glance at her. She was listening. Presently her eyes came to meet mine. “Surely,” she urged, “the five minutes are past.” “Yes,” I said, “they must be.” And looking warily out of the window I shouted. No one answered, no one appeared. But while I hung over the sill and waited sounds that I did not understand came to my ears, vaguely at first, but presently more clearly. It seemed to me that a struggle was going on not far off. “I believe Tom has got away!” I exclaimed. “Or they are fighting among themselves. Listen!” The report of a gun startled us. The girl sprang to the window and breathless, trembling with anxiety she leant far out; so far that I drew her back. “Have a care!” I said. “They might take you for me!” Then, “Who is this?” I asked. A man had appeared at a little distance from us, and was approaching the door. I knew at a glance that it was not Levi; Levi would have hailed me from a distance or sneaked up under cover. This man came forward without fear, a little switch in his hand. “It’s not Tom!” I said. The mist blurred the man’s outline. “Tom? No!” she answered looking at me piteously. Then, “Ask him! He knows! He—” She could not finish. She clung to me. It was only later that I took in the full wonder and the meaning of this. She clung to me, though the news bad or good, was not known to her. “Halloa!” I shouted to the man who was still a few yards from the door but was coming on as coolly as if he were approaching his own house. “Is it good news?” I had no doubt of the answer but it was best to know the worst, best to have it over. He looked up and saw me. He nodded. “Yes, it’s good!” he said. Then he nodded again. “Quite good, Major.” I stared confounded, while she—for a moment her weight hung heavy on my arm. Then she sighed, stiffened herself, and drew away from me. I did not look at her. For one thing I dared not, and for another, what if the news were not true? Who was this man, and what did he know? “Is she there?” he asked, looking up and tapping his neat boot with his switch. “Yes,” I said, still doubting. “Well, send her down, will you?” he replied. “There’s somebody waiting for her at the back of the mill.” Then I knew the man. It was Marion—General Marion, for he had been raised to that rank since I had parted from him. CHAPTER XIII CONSTANTIA AT SARATOGA _“We don’t think much of Miss X— Y— my dear, Quite too fond of the British Officers.”_ LIFE OF ELIZA PINKNEY.