“That is the abode of Andrew Shadwell,” Stephen told her. “He is a Tory and a sympathiser with the English, so, rich and influential as he is, his fellow townsmen are visiting him with dire punishment.” Cries of “Blow up the fire!” “Smoke him out, the traitorous Loyalist!” were going up as the coach rumbled past, Clotilde burying her small nose in her kerchief as she went by. “No one need tell me that the spirit of the intolerant old Puritans is quite perished from the earth,” laughed Stephen, as they finally passed the place and were able to breathe again. “Andrew Shadwell must be a sorry man this night that he voiced his opinions so loudly.” There began, after this journey, the endless, breathless waiting while Boston held out in spite of the long siege and while all watched patiently for the time when the British should be starved into surrender. Now and then, bodies of the King’s troops broke through the circle of besiegers and made desperate sallies into the surrounding country for food and supplies, of which the city began to be sadly in want. Or sometimes an English ship would land a handful of redcoats here or there upon the coast, who would make a dash through a town or two, burn a few houses and hurry back to the safety of their vessel. Otherwise, there was little news or excitement through the long summer, and the hum of the spinning-wheels and the thump, thump of the busy looms sounded peacefully from every open cottage door. But the peace of Hopewell was not to remain unbroken. There was one night when October had come, when the corn and wheat and oats had been gathered in, when the yellow pumpkins and rosy apples were ready for harvesting, that Clotilde became aware of a commotion in the fields beyond their garden. There were moving lights, voices and the sound of tramping feet in the hard yellow stubble. A few minutes later, Miles Atherton, thinner and browner for his months of soldier’s service, but the same earnest-eyed, little-speaking Miles, came in at the wide-open door. “I must speak with Master Sheffield,” he said briefly to Clotilde, although his face shone with excitement. “Come in, lad,” said Stephen, who was standing by the study door. “What can it be that brings you here? I see by your face that it is something unusual that is on foot.” “It is,” replied Miles in troubled tones. “There is a company of redcoats who have slipped out of Boston and have so far eluded us who were sent out to capture them. They have never before ventured so far as this, but they are growing desperate in the city and they know that the whole countryside, up this way, is full of well-stored barns from the abundant harvest. This raid is made by a troop of soldiers greater in number than we had at first thought, so we have sent for reinforcements and are to make a stand near Hopewell and hold them until help comes.”