He recognised Una's voice and then that of the Comtesse. He had no time to think what they wanted or how they came to be crouching in a damp ditch in the rain while the evening darkened over them. He leaped from the bank, crossed the road, and raced off again towards his father's house.
He arrived at the door, breathless, but sure that he was in good time. He burst into the sitting-room and found his father and uncle, their lamp already lighted, bending over a pile of papers which lay before them on the table.
"The soldiers, the yeomen, are on their way here," he gasped.
"The yeomen are on their way to the meetinghouse. They are going to search for arms, for cannon, which they say are concealed there."
Micah Ward stood stock still. His body seemed to have become suddenly rigid. His face grew quite white. Donald, leaning back in his chair, smiled slightly.
"So," he said, "they have begun. Are there cannon there, brother?"
"Yes, there are," said Micah, slowly. "Four six-pounders. They belonged to the Volunteers. We kept them. We thought they might be useful some day."
"Ah," said Donald, "it's a pity. We shall have the trouble of re-capturing them. Come, let us go down to the meeting-house. I should like to see these terrible yeomen."
"Some one has given them information," said Micah. He was silent for a minute. Then he muttered as if to himself--
"Some one has informed against us. Some one has brought this evil upon us. Who has done this thing? Who is our secret enemy?"
"Come," said Donald, "don't stand muttering there."
But Micah did not heed him. Raising both hands above his head, and looking upward, he spoke slowly, clearly--
"May the curse of the Lord God of Israel light on the man who has informed against us. May he be smitten with madness and blindness and astonishment of heart. May he grope at the noonday as the blind gropeth in the darkness. May his life hang in doubt before him. May he fear day and night, and have none assurance of his life. May he say in the morning--'Would God it were even! And at even--'Would God it were morning!' for the fear of his heart wherewith he shall fear and the sight of his eyes which he shall see."
"That," said Donald, "is a mighty fine curse. I'm darned if I ever heard a more comprehensive kind of curse. We had a God-forsaken half-breed in our company, under General Greene, who could curse quite a bit, and he never came near that curse. But I reckon that a good deal of it will have to be wasted. There isn't a man living who could stand it for long. Still, if you name the man for us, I'll do the best I can with him. I may not be able to work the blindness and the groping just as you'd wish, but I'll undertake that his life hangs in doubt before him for a bit."