“Mass’r Paul was suspicioned of harborin’ somebody,” she said; and already the hordes of mountaineers were assembling around the Cross Roads, and concerting measures for surprising and entrapping the Yankee. “Chloe tell me she hear ’em say if they was perfectly sure ’bout mass’r, and it wasn’t for Miss Maude, they’d set the house on fire; and they looks mighty like they’s fit to do it. The wust faces, Miss Maude, and they does _swar_ awful ’bout the Yankee. They’s got halters, and tar and feathers, and guns” Lois was out of breath by this time, and even if she had not been, she would have paused with wonder at the face of her young mistress. Maude had listened intently to the first part of Lois’s story, but felt no emotion save that of scorn and contempt for the men assembled at the Cross Roads, and whom “Uncle Paul could manage so easily;” but when it came to the halter for the Yankee, her face turned white as marble, and in that moment of peril, she realized all that Captain Carleton was to her, and knew what had been the result of the last week’s daily intercourse with one so gifted and so congenial. She knew too that he was not for her. Arthur Tunbridge stood in the way of that. She would keep her faith with him, but she would save Captain Carleton, or die. “Lois,” she said, and there was no tremor in her voice, “bring that dress I gave you last Christmas,—the one you think is so long. Your shawl and bonnet, too, and shoes; bring them to Captain Carleton’s room.” Lois comprehended her mistress at once, and hurried away to her cabin after the dress, whose extra length she had so often deplored, saying “it wasn’t for such as her to wear switchin’ trains like the grand folks.” Meanwhile Maude had communicated with her uncle, who manifested no concern except for his guest, and even for him he had no fears provided he could reach the cave in safety. To accomplish that was Maude’s object, and as the Cross Roads lay in that direction a great amount of tact and skill was necessary. But Maude was equal to any emergency, and half an hour later there issued from Paul Haverill’s door, two figures clad in female garments, and whom a casual observer would have sworn were Maude De Vere and her servant Lois. Maude had a revolver in her pocket, and another in the basket she carried so carefully, and which was supposed to contain the cups of jelly and custard she was taking a poor sick neighbor, whose house was up the mountain path. At her side, with the shuffling gait peculiar to Lois, Tom Carleton walked, his nicely blackened face hidden in the deep shaker which Lois had worn for years, and his calico dress flopping awkwardly about his feet. Lois fortunately was very tall, and so her skirts did good service for the young man, whose powers of imitation were perfect, and who walked and looked exactly like the old colored woman watching his progress from an upper window, and declaring that she would almost “swar it was herself.”