A faint sound of voices reached his ears, and he moved forward slowly to the window.

It was an oaken shutter originally fastened with a leather strap, but the strap was gone, and now some one had tied it, though not tightly, with a deer tendon.

The crack between shutter and wall was at least three inches, and Henry could see within very well.
He pressed his side tightly to the wall and put his eyes to the crevice.
What he saw within did not still any of those primitive feelings that had risen so strongly in his breast.
A great fire had been built in the log fireplace, but it was burning somewhat low now, having reached that mellow period of least crackling and greatest heat.

The huge bed of coals threw a mass of varied and glowing colors across the floor.

Large holes had been burned in the side of the room by the original fire, but Indian blankets had been fastened tightly over them.
In front of the fire sat Braxton Wyatt in a Loyalist uniform, a three-cornered hat cocked proudly on his head, and a small sword by his side.