Hushed though the voices were, each word fell distinct on her ear as the boats drew near and passed up the tideway. "Rise up, Mistress--, all in your smock of silk, For summer is a-come in to-day-- And all your body under as white as any milk In the merry merry morning of May." The voices faded away up the river. Only the lilt of the song came back to her now, but memory supplied the words. Had they not been sung under her window years ago? "Rise up, Mistress Marty, all out of your bed, For summer is a-come in to-day-- Your chamber shall be spread with the white rose and red In the merry merry morning of May. "O where be the maidens that here now should sing? For summer is a-come in to-day-- They be all in the meadows the flowers gathering, In the merry merry morning of May." What magic was there in this artless ditty that kept Miss Marty lingering awhile with moist eyes ere she closed the window-sash? "Wh'st! Miss Mar-ty!" Heavens! Whose voice was that, calling up hoarsely from the shadows? She peered out, but could see nobody. Suddenly her maiden modesty took alarm. What possessed her to be standing here exposed, and exposing the interior of her lighted bed-chamber to view from the street? She ran back in a flurry and blew out the candles; then, returning, put up a hand to draw down the window-sash. "Wh'st! Miss Mar-ty!" "Gracious goodness!" After a moment's hesitation she craned out timorously. "Cai Tamblyn . . .?" "Miss Marty!" "What on earth are you doing there at this time of night?" "Sentry-go." "Nonsense. What do I want of a sentry?" "You never can tell." "Are you here by the Major's order?" "Ch't!" answered Cai Tamblyn. "_Him!_" "Then go away, please, and let me beg you to speak more respectfully of your master." "I reckon," said Cai, slowly, "you don't know that, barrin' the nigger under the stairs, this here town's as empty as my hat. Well, a man can but die once, and if the French come, let 'em; that's all I say. Good night, miss." "The town empty?" "Males, females and otherwise, down to Miss Jex at the post-office." (Cai Tamblyn nursed an inveterate antipathy for the post-mistress. He alleged no reason for it, save that she wore moustaches, which was no reason at all, and a monstrous exaggeration.) "There's Miss Pescod gone, and Miss Tregentil with her maid." "But where? Why?" "Up the river. Gallivantin'. That's what I spoke ye for, just now. Mind you, I don't propose no gallivantin'; but there's safety in numbers, and if you've a mind for it, I've the boat ready by the Broad Slip." "But what foolishness!" "Ay," Mr. Tamblyn assented. "That's what I said to the Doctor when he first mentioned it. 'What foolishness,' I said, 'at _her_ time o' life!' But then we never reckoned on the whole town goin' crazed."