"Who is at home with you?" inquired the sergeant, eagerly.
"Nobody but my youngest boy, Andrew," answered the dame. "And then the filthy, toping rioters—" she continued, exalting her voice.
"What arms have you in the house?" asked Robinson, without heeding the dame's rising anger.
"We have a rifle, and a horseman's pistol that belongs to John. They must call for drink, too, and turn my house of a Sunday morning into a tavern."
"They took the route towards Ninety-Six, you said, Mistress Ramsay?"
"Yes; they went straight forward upon the road. But, look you, Mr. Horseshoe, you re not thinking of going after them?"
"Isn't there an old field, about a mile from this, on that road?" inquired the sergeant, still intent upon his own thoughts.
"There is," replied the dame; "with the old schoolhouse upon it."
"A lopsided, rickety, log cabin in the middle of the field. Am I right, good woman? "
"Yes."
"And nobody lives in it? It has no door to it?"
"There ha'n't been anybody in it these seven years."
"I know the place very well," said the sergeant, thoughtfully; "there is woods just on this side of it."
"That's true," replied the dame; "but what is it you are thinking about, Mr. Robinson?"
"How long before this rain began was it that they quitted this house?"
"Not above fifteen minutes."
"Mistress Ramsay, bring me the rifle and pistol both—and the powderhorn and bullets."
