On a settle before the green-log barrack, some of Schott’s riflemen were idling, and now stood, seeing an officer.

“Boys,” I said, “where is this latest foolery of Tim Murphy hung to dry?”

They seemed ashamed, but told me, As I moved on, I said carelessly, partly turning:

“Where is the Spring Waiontha?”

“On the Lake Trail, sir — first branch of the Stoney-Kill.”

“Is there a house there?”

“Rannock’s.”

“A path to find it?”

“A sheep walk only. Rannock is dead. The destructives murdered him when they burned Cherry Valley. Mrs. Rannock brings us eggs and milk.”