hat, and a short gown, of the usual butternut dye, trudging on in the
same direction, some distance ahead. As she looked back, in evident
amazement at the column of men marching after her, Perez thought that
he recognized the face, and on coming up with her, she proved to be,
in fact, no other than Prudence Fennell, the little lass who had
called at the house Sunday evening to inquire about her father down at
the jail, and whose piteous grief at the report Perez was obliged to
give, had determined Abner and him to attempt the rescue of George, as
well as Reub, at whatever additional risk.

Far enough were they then from dreaming that two days later would find
them leading a battalion of armed men, by broad daylight along the
high road, to free the captives by open force. As readily would they
then have counted on an earthquake to open the prison doors, as on
this sudden uprising of the people in their strength.

As the men came up, Prudence stopped to let them pass by, her fresh,
pretty face expressive of considerable dismay. As she shrunk closely
up to the rail fence that lined the highway, she looked with timid
recognition up at Perez, as if to claim his protection.

"Where are you going?" he asked kindly, stopping his horse.

"I'm going to see father," she said with a tremulous lip.

"Poor little lassie, were you going to walk all the way?"

"It is nothing," she said, "I could not wait, you know. He might die,"
and her bosom heaved with a sob that would fain break forth.