“As it was, we could only turn our energy to the saving of your gear,” said one of the narrators, a lean old man who lived, in abject poverty, at the outskirts of the village and who, by Stephen’s charity alone, was kept from starving. “We rescued what we could, and with a right good will, but we would rather have been dealing out death to those rascally heathen-speaking soldiers of King George.” “And if you had,” commented Stephen, “there would have been fifty houses burned instead of one, and many a goodwife to-day mourning the loss of her husband or her son, rather than one man grieving for his house and garden.” “I came so quickly when I saw the smoke,” resumed the old fellow, “that not all of the soldiers were yet gone. One company, it seemed, had marched behind the rest and only came up when the house was all ablaze. The young officer who led them seemed sorely angered at what the Hessians had done; I heard him say hotly to his superior in command, “‘Such wanton destruction is a sin and a shame, sir.’ “I verily believe he would have set his own men to putting out the fire had they not been commanded to go forward at once. I was made bold by seeing that there was one kind heart amongst them and called after, ‘Never fear, sir, we will care for our good Master’s property,’ and he turned and waved his hat to me as he galloped away. I went up to look at the prisoners when they were marched into Hopewell next day, but he was not with them. I thank Heaven that he was the single one that escaped.” “You did well,” said Stephen. “I hear from all sides how much you and your comrades saved.” “There is not a house in Hopewell,” replied the man, “that has not within it somewhat that belongs to you, linen, portraits, silver—all that we could carry we bore away. I sought to save your great Bible which lay just inside the door, but it was all in flames when I seized it. I had only a glimpse of an open page and upon it a black figure with outstretched arms, and then the whole crumbled to ashes.” “So there is a fitting end to Jeremiah Macrae,” said Stephen, “one that would have pleased the old Puritans most mightily. Now we need never again think of that evil prophecy of his.” “I saved something further,” went on the man, “for at my house I have—” “Hush,” whispered Stephen, as Clotilde came up the path toward the cottage door, her head drooping, her eyes upon the ground. “We will talk of that matter no more. The little maid grieves so sorely over the loss of the house and garden that I like not to speak of it before her. What you have you must keep for a space, since here we have no room for aught beside our immediate needs. So do you guard my rescued property until I ask for it.”