But
this morning, while I was away from the house, I looked back and saw
that the signal was no longer there. Some one had changed it. I ran
back, but I was too late--God help me!--as you see."
The truth flashed upon Brant. It was his own hand that had precipitated
the attack. But a larger truth came to him now, like a dazzling
inspiration. If he had thus precipitated the attack before they were
ready, there was a chance that it was imperfect, and there was still
hope. But there was no trace of this visible in his face as he fixed his
eyes calmly on hers, although his pulses were halting in expectancy as
he said--
"Then the spy had suspected you, and changed it."
"Oh, no," she said eagerly, "for the spy was with me and was frightened
too. We both ran back together--you remember--she was stopped by the
patrol!"
She checked herself suddenly, but too late. Her cheeks blazed, her
head sank, with the foolish identification of the spy into which her
eagerness had betrayed her.
But Brant appeared not to notice it. He was, in fact, puzzling his
brain to conceive what information the stupid mulatto woman could
have obtained here. His strength, his position was no secret to the
enemy--there was nothing to gain from him.
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