Some of the villagers, intoxicated by the news, had thrown down their scythes, and rushed to the ranks of the invader.

Christopher Swetman had weighed both sides of the question, and had remained at home.
Now as he lay thinking of these and other things he fancied that he could hear the footfall of a man on the road leading up to his house--a byway, which led scarce anywhere else; and therefore a tread was at any time more apt to startle the inmates of the homestead than if it had stood in a thoroughfare.

The footfall came opposite the gate, and stopped there.
One minute, two minutes passed, and the pedestrian did not proceed.
Christopher Swetman got out of bed, and opened the casement.

'Hoi! who's there ?' cries he.
'A friend,' came from the darkness.
'And what mid ye want at this time o' night ?' says Swetman.
'Shelter.

I've lost my way.' 'What's thy name ?' There came no answer.
'Be ye one of King Monmouth's men ?' 'He that asks no questions will hear no lies from me.