“There was one officer that escaped,” admitted Miles, “for he alone would not surrender, and with dare-devil courage broke through the troops behind him, on his big grey horse and got clean away. But we have all the rest and our losses are most miraculously few.” “Did they—did they stop to do harm to our dwelling?” inquired Clotilde falteringly, almost afraid to learn the truth. “That I do not know,” Miles answered, “although I have asked many times. The officers will not tell and the Hessians cannot, since they speak no English. Poor things, they seem to have small objection to being prisoners.” It was full daylight when they set out on their homeward journey, a dull, raw day, threatening rain. Stephen, leaning back among the cushions of the coach, slept at last, but looking so white and spent that Clotilde and Mère Jeanne gazed at each other in anxious dismay. The way seemed very long, over the hill, past their meeting-place with Andrew Shadwell and out into the open country again. The townspeople came out in such throngs to stare at the Hessian prisoners, who were marching behind, that progress was hampered and the coach, finally drawing away from the soldiers, went forward alone. They were passing a narrow crossroad, Stephen asleep, Mother Jeanne nodding and Clotilde staring idly through the window, when she was suddenly startled by the thunder of flying hoofs. A man mounted upon a tall grey horse went by at a headlong gallop, passing so near that the girl could see his face plainly, even to the shape of his square jaw and, almost, the colour of his eyes. Beneath his flying cloak she caught a glimpse of scarlet uniform. “It must be the officer who would not surrender,” she cried softly. “Perhaps Andrew Shadwell hid him but was afraid to shelter him longer. Oh, I wonder if he will escape in the end.” There was no one to stop him now, except old black Jason on the box, who seemed to have no desire for such a task, so the man swept by unhindered and soon dwindled to a flying speck far off down the road. It was strange how closely she had seen his face, and stranger still the feeling she had that it was somehow familiar. In vain she searched her memory, she could think of no place nor time when she could have seen such a man before. She pondered much over this curious thought of hers and only forgot it when the big coach rolled into the streets of Hopewell. People came running out of their houses to stop the horses, peep inside and see if their well-loved Master Sheffield was really safe. There was a queer, subdued look upon all the friendly faces, a look speaking of news too grievous to tell. It frightened Clotilde and made her wish that the coach would hurry and bring them safely home. The same feeling, also, seemed to have seized old Jason on the box, for, instead of going round by the tree-bordered avenue, he took the nearest way, rattled down the lane at a great pace and drew up with a jerk before the little gate.