threshold just above Squire Woodbridge's head and a little to one side
of him. At a glance he saw the way things were going. Already half
demoralized by the mere presence and glance of the magnates, a dozen
threatening words from the opening lips of Woodbridge would suffice to
send these incipient rebels, like whipped curs, to their homes. He
thought of Reub, and for a moment his heart was filled with grief and
terror. Then he had an inspiration.

In the crowd was one known as Little Pete, a German drummer of
Reidesel's Hessian corps, captured with Burgoyne's army. Brought to
Stockbridge and quartered there as a prisoner he had continued to live
in the town since the war. Abner had somewhere procured an old drum
for Pete, and with this hung about his neck, the sticks in his hands,
he now stood not ten feet away from the tavern door. He spoke but
little English, and, being a foreigner, had none of that awe for the
selectmen, alike in their personal and official characters, which
unnerved the village folk. Left isolated by the falling back of the
people around him, Pete was now staring at these dignitaries in stolid
indifference. They did not wear uniforms, and Pete had never learned
to respect or fear anything not in uniform.

Having first brought the people before him, to the fitting preliminary
stage of demoralization, by the power of his eye, Woodbridge said in
stern, authoritative tones, the more effective for being low pitched,

"You may well"----

That was as far, however, as he got. With the first sound of his
voice, Perez stepped down beside him. Drawing his sword, which he had
put on that morning, he waved it with a commanding gesture, and