Often by day you would see great swarms of people clustered about upon the ledge of rocks west of the city just at the foot of the stockade, with their eyes turned up river, as if they expected to see a French flotilla appear in sight at any moment. The little wicket gate through which I had fled with the suspicious sailors the night before Van Volkenberg’s disgrace was now seldom closed in the daytime. Through it staggered a stream of fearful people, ever on the lookout for the invader. The excitement was no less on the island north of the city wall. All the little hamlets between New York and Harlem were making preparations for defense, drilling and mustering men into companies to meet the stranger. Every afternoon and evening the Red Band assembled on the terrace to practice the use of arms, marching and countermarching, and all things needful for the little army of the patroon. They moved like clockwork. There were no soldiers like them in the whole province; even the governor’s guard was not so well trained by half. Still there was no visible sign of danger. A post came in from Albany and reported that all was peaceful in the neighborhood of Fort Orange. This ferment had grown to a head while our attention at the manor-house was attracted to other things. It was on the night after the death of Meg—or, was it the next night? I forget, but it makes no difference—that I sat in my room reading the little Bible that I had carried ever since the old days in France. Suddenly I was startled by a sharp scraping sound apparently in my own room. I listened a moment attentively and placed the sound low down near the door. There was a pause; then, after a moment’s silence, the scraping began again. “Begone,” I cried, with a loud stamp of my foot, supposing, of course, that rats were gnawing in the wainscot. At the sound of my voice there was a rustle like skirts in the hall, and then I was sure I heard light footsteps running away from my door. I rose quickly and opened it. All was dark in the hall, and there was no sign of any visitor. I sat down again, wondering who it was and whether the visitor would return. Perhaps ten minutes passed, during which I heard nothing, though I listened with both my ears. Then of a sudden, without any foresounds, the scratching began again. I rose very quietly with my candle in my hand, and tip-toed across the room. I took care to make no noise this time, for I wanted to surprise my visitor, and find out who she was. I turned the knob softly without letting the door give an inch, paused a moment to get my weight right, and then flung the door wide open with my candle held high above my head. There stood Annetje Dorn, with her fingers to her lips for silence. “Follow me,” she whispered. “But don’t make the least noise.”