Farther back was Judge
Hubbell's familiar abode with dense shrubbery. He hastened to it
and in a minute was hidden where he could see something of the
approaching troops. They were much like those that had gone
before, but much more numerous, at least a regiment, and as they
filled the village way, an officer cried "Halt!" and gave new
orders. Evidently they were about to bivouac for the night. A
soldier approached the picket fence to use it for firewood, but
an officer rebuked him. Other fuel, chiefly fence rails, was
found, and a score or more of fires were lighted on the highway
and in the adjoining pasture. Rolf found himself in something
like a trap, for in less than two hours now would be the dawn.
The simplest way out was to go in; he crawled quietly round the
house to the window of Mrs. Hubbell's room. These were times of
nervous tension, and three or four taps on the pane were enough
to arouse the good lady. Her husband had come that way more than once.
"Who is it?" she demanded, through a small opening of the sash.
"Rolf Kittering," he whispered, "the place is surrounded by
soldiers; can't you hide me?"
Could she? Imagine an American woman saying "No" at such a time.
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