Peyton's wrists were as Williams had tied them. He was without his hat, which had been knocked off in a brief struggle he had essayed against his captors in a moment when Sam had lowered the pistol. There was a little fresh snow on his hair, and more on his shoulders. The feet of his boots were cased with it. His left arm was held by Williams, who carried the broken sword, having taken it from the scabbard at the first opportunity. Peyton's other arm was grasped by the huge, bony left hand of Sam, who held the cocked pistol in his right. The two men walked with him to the centre of the parlor, and stopped. "By George," said he, turning his face towards Sam, with fire in his eyes, "had the snow not killed the sound of your sneaking footsteps till you'd caught my arms behind, I'd have done for the two of you!" "Good, Williams!" said Colden. "Place him on that chair, and leave him here with me. But stay in the hall on guard." "So Miss Elizabeth ordered us, sir," said Williams, dryly, and, with Sam, conducted Peyton to the chair, on which he sat willingly. "Of course she did," replied Colden. "Was it not at my suggestion?" Peyton looked sharply up at the major, who regarded him with the undisguised pleasure of hate about to be satisfied. Williams handed the broken sword to Colden, saying, "This was the only weapon he had, sir. We grabbed him before he could use it. We ran out behind him from the roadside, and he couldn't hear us for the snow." "Ay, or the pair of you couldn't have taken me!" said Peyton, with hot scorn and defiant gameness. Colden, with the piece of sword, motioned Williams to go from the room. "Leave the door ajar a little," he added, "so you can hear if I call."