Saving only Uncle Sammy Bellamy, the group resolved itself into the women and children of the Hill, but there was one small figure he missed, and the color faded from his cheeks while his heart stood still.

The patriarch hurried toward him, leaning on his cane, while his grandson clung to the skirts of his coat, weeping bitterly.
"They've took your nevvy, Bob!" he cried, in a high, thin voice.
"Who's took him ?" asked Yancy hoarsely.

He paused and glanced from one to another of the little group.
"Hit were Dave Blount.

Get your gun, Bob, and go after him--kill the miserable sneaking cuss!" cried Uncle Sammy, who believed in settling all difficulties by bloodshed as befitted a veteran of the first war with England, he having risen to the respectable rank of sergeant in a company of Morgan's riflemen; while at sixty-odd in '12, when there was recruiting at the Cross Roads, his son had only been able to prevent his tendering his services to his country by hiding his trousers.

"Fetch his rifle, some of you fool women!" cried Uncle Sammy.