But his wife proved equal to this emergency.  She had been making over a bed, and a large basket of feathers was within reach.  There were live coals on the hearth, but they did not give out enough heat to prevent the ruffians from descending.  Two of them were already in the chimney, and were threatening horrible vengeance if the least resistance was offered.  Upon the coals on the hearth the housewife instantly emptied her basket of feathers; and a great volume of pungent, stifling smoke poured up the chimney.  The threats of the men, who by means of ropes were cautiously descending, were transformed into choking, half-suffocated sounds, and it was soon evident that the intruders were scrambling out as fast as possible.  A hurried consultation on the roof ensued, and then, as if something had alarmed them, they galloped off.  With the exception of the cries of the peepers, or hylas, in an adjacent swamp, the night soon grew quiet around the closed and darkened dwelling.  Farmer Reynolds bowed in thanksgiving over their escape, and then after watching a few hours, slept as did thousands of others in those times of anxiety.

But Phebe did not sleep.  She grew old by moments that night as do other girls by months and years; as never before she understood that her father’s life was in peril.  How much that life meant to her and the little brood of which she was the eldest!  How much it meant to her dear mother, who was soon again to give birth to a little one that would need a father’s protection and support!  As the young girl lay in her little attic room, with dilated eyes and ears intent on the slightest sound, she was ready for any heroic self-sacrifice, without once dreaming that she was heroic.

The news of the night-attack spread fast, and there was a period of increased vigilance which compelled the outlaws to lie close in their mountain fastnesses.  But Phebe knew that her father’s enemies were still at large with their hate only stimulated because baffled for a time.  Therefore she did not in the least relax her watchfulness; and she besought their nearest neighbors to come to their assistance should any alarm be given.

When the spring and early summer passed without further trouble, they all began to breathe more freely, but one July night John Reynolds was betrayed by his patriotic impulses.  He was awakened by a loud knocking at his door.  Full of misgiving, he rose and hastily dressed himself:  Phebe, who had slipped on her clothes at the first alarm, joined him and said earnestly: 

“Don’t thee open the door, father, to anybody, at this time of night;” and his wife, now lying ill and helpless on a bed in the adjoining room, added her entreaty to that of her daughter.  In answer, however, to Mr. Reynolds’s inquiries a voice from without, speaking quietly and seemingly with authority, asserted that they were a squad from Washington’s forces in search of deserters, and that no harm would ensue unless he denied their lawful request.  Conscious of innocence, and aware that detachments were often abroad on such authorized quests, Mr. Reynolds unbarred his door.  The moment he opened it he saw his terrible error; not soldiers, but the members of the mountain gang, were crouched like wild beasts ready to spring upon him.