"There!" she said, "he is safe out of mischief for awhile, and
your heads are safe as well. Pardon a poor old man, who does not
know what he is about."
"He seems to know remarkably well," exclaimed an officer.
Meanwhile, behind the strong door, Uncle John's wrath knew no
bounds. In his frantic endeavors to burst the fastenings of the
wooden buttons, rheumatic cramps seized him and carried the day,
leaving him out of the battle.
Meanwhile, a portion of the soldiery clustered about the door.
The king's horses were fed within five feet of the great brass
knocker, while, within the house, the beautiful little old woman,
in her Sunday-best-raiment, tried to do the dismal honors of the
day to the foes of her country. Watching her, one would have
thought she was entertaining heroes returned from the achievement
of valiant deeds, whereas, in her own heart, she knew full well
that she was giving a little to save much.
Nothing could exceed the seeming alacrity with which she fetched
water from the well for the officers: and, when Major Pitcairn
gallantly ordered his men to do the service, the little soul was
in alarm; she was so afraid that "somehow, in some way or
another, the blue stocking would get hitched on to the bucket."
She knew that she must to its rescue, and so she bravely
acknowledged herself to have taken a vow (when, she did not say),
to draw all the water that was taken from that well.
"A remnant of witchcraft!" remarked a soldier within hearing.
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