“Well, well,” sighed Stephen at last, “an old man must give in to importunate children. To give battle here would, as I see, merely waste lives that the country needs and might also lead to the slaying of innocent towns-folk and the burning of houses. So, if you will not go on without me, I must needs come too. Clotilde, go tell Jason to order out the coach.”
Preparations were so hurried that there was no time for useless bewailing. Some of the silver was hidden, some of the linen locked away, but nothing of real service could be accomplished. As Clotilde ran through the hall, pulling her cloak about her, she saw that the great Bible had been brought out of the study and was lying on the table. Mère Jeanne had felt that it would be wicked to leave it behind, but had been obliged in the end to put it down hastily, as it was too heavy a burden to carry far. The breeze from the open door had fluttered over the pages so that, as Clotilde stopped to blow out the last of the candles burning upon the table, she saw staring up from the open page the dark terrifying face that stood to her for Jeremiah Macrae.
“Oh, no,” she cried aloud in terror, as though his words had actually sounded in her ears. “Not that! Not that!” And she ran out swiftly, leaving the book still open on the table.
Mother Jeanne and one or two of the older servants came with them, the rest sought shelter in the village, so that the house was left unprotected and all alone. Clotilde, looking back through the coach window, could see the kitchen firelight still shining through the vine-hung casement and could feel her hot tears flowing at the thought of rude hands battering at the door of that beloved dwelling and clumsy feet trampling the flowers that still bloomed bravely in the garden. Then, as a turn in the road hid the house from sight, she laid her head against Mother Jeanne’s shoulder and wept bitterly.
She seemed to remember afterward only brief snatches of that strange night’s ride, first their passing through the town of Hopewell and Stephen’s leaning from the coach window to bid the people stay quiet in their houses and leave the fighting to be done by Captain Atherton’s soldiers. Then, after bumping down the road at a hurried gallop, they drove through the next town where, before a gate, Andrew Shadwell sat on a great black horse.