We rode at a moderate pace such as should have brought us to the smithy in forty minutes or more, and I am minded to sound the praises of my comrades by saying confidently, that if a stranger had seen us then he would have had no grounds for believing we were expecting an attack. Although not for any ordinary amount of wealth would I have allowed myself to be left behind, it surely seemed as if we had no warrant for taking the risks--as if the capture of Seth Hastings was hardly so important that we should endanger our liberty, if not our lives, by trying to make him prisoner again. However, we were on the road to the smithy; the question had been settled without my having raised a voice in protest, yet I felt as fully committed to it as if to me alone had been left the decision. Once during the short journey we halted that the horses might drink from a brook which crossed the road, and then on again until we were come to a forge, so small that when the smith would shoe a horse the animal must perforce remain outside the building. Nearby, perhaps fifty yards away, was a dwelling built of logs, with a long shed behind it evidently intended as a stable for horses and cattle. No person was to be seen; the door of the smithy, a rude affair made of splints and hanging by one hinge, was nearly closed, and this in itself, to us who were suspicious, seemed strange, for the day was warm, and a man working at the forge would have been in need of all the fresh air he could get. Some one near me said, in a tone half of doubt, half of anger: “The place is abandoned! How could Master Rowe have sent a messenger?” Just then we heard the clinking sound of metal struck against metal, and Gabriel would have dismounted to open the door had not Master Sawyer clutched him by the arm, as he said quickly: “Remain in your saddle, lad! It is the safer course, for he who dismounts must turn his back upon the enemy to regain his footing in the stirrups.” Then, raising his voice, he cried, “Ho, in the smithy! We would speak with you, good Master Rowe!” The hail was not answered immediately, and it seemed to me that Master Sawyer was on the point of crying again, when the door was pulled inward a few inches as the heavily bearded face of a man peered out. Gabriel waited an instant, fancying Master Sawyer was minded to conduct the conversation, but since the gentleman sat silent, our leader asked in an unnecessarily loud voice: “Is this Master Reuben Rowe?” “Ay, and what may you be wanting of me? A shoe for a horse?” “We call ourselves the Minute Boys of South Carolina,” Gabriel replied, as if believing this would be the only information needed to announce the purpose of our coming, and the man stared at him as if not understanding. Gabriel repeated the words, and after waiting while one might have counted ten, the man asked, with a stupidity which I believed was feigned: “Is that all you have to tell me?”