“Men say there is surely trouble to come over these rascal Tories,” said the Lieutenant, as he sat in Stephen’s chair at the head of the table and eyed joyfully the smoking platter that Clotilde set down before him. “It is even rumoured that Andrew Shadwell has been petitioning the British Commander to send a company of redcoats to escort him and his friends out of the country. He knows that, as it is, if he tries to escape the whole neighbourhood will be upon him like a nest of hornets. But the English soldiers have too much to do elsewhere, and, influential as our friend Andrew is, I doubt much if they will listen to his plea. Certainly no such measures can be taken for some time.” When at last the grateful guests, warmed, dry, well fed and greatly cheered in heart, had marched away and the remains of the supper had been cleared from the board, Clotilde bethought her of a task that had been nearly forgotten in the hurry and excitement of the soldiers’ coming. A great bale of woollen cloth, for the making of army coats, was to be sent from Hopewell next day, but her share of the weaving had, in the press of other things, been left unfinished on the loom in Samuel Skerry’s cottage. Only a yard remained to be woven, therefore, she decided, she could slip over to the little house and finish the work that it might be carried to the Town Hall in the morning. Leaving word for Mère Jeanne, who was used to her labouring late in the weaving-room and would not lie awake for her, she wrapped herself in her old cloak and slipped out into the white, silent night. Old Jason heard the door creak, came hurrying out to remonstrate against her going alone and finally insisted on following her across the fields to the shoemaker’s house. Here he built a great fire on the hearth in the workroom, drew the curtains close and sat down to wait, while Clotilde climbed to the high bench before the loom and presently filled the whole cottage with the monotonous sound of the swinging heddle. “Jason,” she said at last, seeing that the old man was worn out by the unwonted business of the day and was drowsy and nodding in his chair, “there is no need of your waiting here. I have worked in this place at night a score of times and have come to no harm. Go home and to bed: I have the key of the little side door and will come just so soon as this web is done.” “Yes, Mistress,” answered Jason, rising obediently, too sleepy either to reason or object. He stumbled out, closing the door behind him, and left Clotilde alone to a silence broken only by the crackling of the fire, the whirring of the shuttle and the creaking of the loom. “I suppose I should get down and lock the door after him,” she reflected; but just at that moment a knotted thread caught her attention and held it until, presently, she forgot all about the big iron key sticking, unturned, in the lock.