“It will rain before sundown,” he said, munching on his apple; “best seek shelter, sir.  When it comes it will come hard.”

“Where runs this road?” I asked.

“To Boutonville.”

“And what is Boutonville?”

“It’s where the Boutons live—­ a mile or two north, sir.  They’re a wild parcel.”

“Are they of our party?”

“Oh, yes, sir.  But they hunt the leather-caps as we hunt quail—­ scare up a company, fire, and then track down the scattered.”

“Oh; irregulars.”

“No, sir, not skinners.  They farm it until the British plague them beyond endurance.  Then,” he added significantly, “they go a-hunting with their dogs.”

I had already turned to retrace my steps when it occurred to me that perhaps an inquiry of this lad might not be misunderstood.

So I walked up to his horse and stood caressing the sorry animal while I described to him the wench I was seeking.

“Yes, sir,” he said seriously, “that’s the one the boys are ever plaguing to make her rage.”

“Do you know her?”

“By sight, yes, sir.”

“She is one of the camp followers, I take it,” said I carelessly.

“I don’t know.  The boys are ever plaguing her.  She came from the North they say.  All I know is that in April she was first seen here, loitering about the camp where the White Plains Indians were embodied.  But she did not go off with the Continentals.”

“She was loitering this afternoon by the camp of Colonel Thomas’s men,” I said.

“Very like, sir.  Did the men plague her?”

“Yes.”

He bit into his apple, unconcerned: 

“They are all after her.  But I never saw her kind to any man—­ whatever she may be.”

Why, I did not know, but what he said gave me satisfaction.

“You do not know which way she went?” I asked.

“No, sir.  I have been here but the half hour.  She knows the Bouton boys yonder.  I have seen her coming and going on this road, sometimes with an Indian——­”

“With a Sagamore?”

He continued his munching.  Having swallowed what he chewed, he said: 

“I know nothing of savages or Sagamores.  The Indian may have been a Sagamore.”

“Do you know where he is to be found?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Perhaps this young girl knows?”

“Doubtless she does, seeing she journeys about with him on the ridge yonder, which we call the Rock Hills.”

“Do you know her name, soldier?”

“They call her Lois, I believe.”

And that was all the news I could get of her; and I thanked the boy and slowly started to retrace my steps toward the village.

Already in the air there was something of that stillness which heralds storms; no leaves on bush and tree were now stirring; land and sky had grown sombre all around me; and the grass glimmered intensely green.