At her side stood Charlie, a round spot of red burning on either pale cheek, and his slender hands grasping a revolver, while occasionally his blue eyes looked eagerly along the mountain road, which as yet was quiet and lonely. “I never thought to raise my hand against my own people,” he said, “but if they harm Uncle Paul I shall shoot somebody.” The sun had been gone from sight for some little time, and the tall mountain shadows were lying thick and black across the valley, when up the road several horsemen came galloping, and Paul Haverill’s house was ere long surrounded by a band of as rough, savage looking men as could well be found in the mountains of Tennessee. Calmly and fearlessly Paul Haverill went out to meet them, asking why they were there, and why they seemed so much excited. For a moment his old power over them asserted itself again, and they hesitated to charge him with treason, as they intended doing. But only for a brief space was there a calm, and then amid oaths and imprecations, and taunting sneers, and threats, they told him of the letter, and deriding him as a traitor, demanded the sneaking Yankee who had written that letter, and was now hidden in the house. To reason with such people was useless, and Paul Haverill did not try it. Standing upon his doorstep, with his grey hair blowing in the evening wind, and his hands deep in his pockets, he said, “I admit your charge in part. There _has_ been a Union soldier in my house,—an escaped prisoner from Columbia. I _did_ care for him, and I am neither ashamed nor afraid to own it. Fear is a stranger to old Paul Haverill, as any of you who tries to harm him will find.” “Never mind a speech, Paul,” said the leader of the men. “Nobody wants to hurt _you_, though you deserve hanging, perhaps. What we want is the Yankee. Fetch him out, and let’s see how he’ll look dangling in the air.” “Yes, fetch him out,” yelled a dozen voices in chorus. “Bring out the Yankee, we want him. Hallo, puny face, are you a bad egg, too?” they continued, as Charlie appeared in the door. “Shall I fire, Uncle Paul?” Charlie asked, and his uncle replied, “By no means, unless you would have them on us like wolves. Friends,” and he turned to the mob, which had been increased by some twenty or more, “friends, that man is gone; he is not here; he has left my house. You can search it if you like.” “Where’s Miss De Vere?” a coarse voice cried. “We know her to be Union. She never tried to cover that as you, hoary old villain, did. She was out and out. Let her come and say the Yankee is gone and we will believe her.” “My niece, I regret to say, is not just now in either. She is gone with Lois to take some nicknacks to a sick neighbor.” “That’s so, boys. I met her myself as I came down the mountain,” called out a young man of the company, who seemed to be superior to his associates.