At this the old man came to meet us, though still with the clumsy musket held at the ready.

“These be parlous times, sir,” he said, half in apology, I thought.  And then:  “You have made friends with my little maid, and I owe you somewhat for bringing her safe home.”

“Nay,” said I; “the debt is mine, inasmuch as I have the little one for my friend.  ’Tis long since I have held a trusting child in my arms, I do assure you, sir.”

He bowed as grandly as any courtier.  “I hope her trust is not misplaced, sir; though for the matter of that, we have little enough now to take or leave.”

“You have given it all to the king?” said I, feeling my way as I had need to.

His eyes flashed and he drew himself up proudly.

“The king has taken all, sir, as you see,” this with a wave of the hand to point me to the forlorn homestead.  “There is naught left me save this poor hut and my little maid.”

“‘Taken,’ you say?  Then you are not of the king’s side?”

He came a step nearer and faced me boldly.  “Listen, sir:  two of my sons were left on the bloody field of Camden, and the butcher Banastre Tarleton slew the other two at Fishing Creek.  A month since a band of roving savages, armed with King George’s muskets, mind you, sir, came down upon us at Northby, and this little maid’s mother—­”

He stopped and choked; and the child looked up into my face with her blue eyes full of nameless terror.  “Oh, I want my mammy!” she said.  “Won’t you find her for me, Cappy Jack?”

I slipped from the saddle, still clasping the little one tightly in my arms.

“Enough, sir,” I said, when I could trust myself to speak.  “This same King George’s minions have made me a homeless outcast, too.  I live but to give some counter stroke, if I may.”

“Ha!” said the old man, starting back; “then you are for our side?  But your uniform—­”

“Is that of an Austrian officer, my good sir, which I should right gladly exchange for the buff and blue, but that I can serve the cause better in this.”

He dropped the Queen’s-arm, took the child from me and bade me welcome to his cabin and all it held.  But I was not minded to make him a sharer in my private peril.

“No,” said I.  “Tell me how I may find Gilbert Town and Major Ferguson’s rendezvous, and I will ride whilst I can see the way.”

He looked at me narrowly.  “Ferguson left Gilbert Town some days since.  If ’tis the place you seek, you are gone far out of your way; if ’tis the man—­”

“’Tis the man,” I cut in hastily.

The patriarch shook his head.

“If you be of our side, as you say, he will hang you out of hand.”

“So I can make my errand good, I care little how soon he hangs me.”

“And what may your errand be?  Mayhap I can help you.”

“It is to bring him to a stand till the mountain men can overtake him.”