There was no mark on the blue surface. I picked up an ink-horn, sniffed
it, and spilled a drop of the fluid on my finger. The fluid left no
stain, but the odor I had noticed certainly came from it. I folded the
paper and placed it in my beaded pouch, then descended the stairs, to
find Mount stirring the corn-bread and Sir George laying a cloth over
the kitchen table, while Beacraft sat moodily by the window, watching
everybody askance. The fire needed mending and I used the bellows. And,
as I knelt there on the hearth, I saw a milky white stain slowly spread
over the finger which I had dipped into the ink-horn. I walked to the
door and stood in the cool morning air. Slowly the white stain
disappeared.
"Mount," I said, sharply, "you and Murphy and Beacraft will eat your
breakfast at once--and be quick about it." And I motioned Murphy into
the house and sat down on an old plough to wait.
Through the open door I could see the two big riflemen plying spoon and
knife, while Beacraft picked furtively at his johnny-cake, eyes
travelling restlessly from Mount to Murphy, from Sir George to the
wooden stairway.
My riflemen ate like hounds after a chase, tipping their porridge-dishes
to scrape them clean, then bolted eggs and smoking corn-bread in a
trice, and rose, taking Beacraft with them to the doorway.
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