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sound that James took for acquiescence.
    Talking more to himself than to his son, James muttered, "I can't risk leaving you in the house for your brother to find. I'll have to bring you with me." He looked at Peter. "Can you stand alone?"
    Peter nodded, straightened, and lost his balance.
    James led him to the stable and leaned him against the stall. Then he brought the roan out. "I'm taking him to the far pasture, out of sight for awhile. Wait here, and for God's sake don't make a sound."

    Thirty minutes later James returned to the stable. Peter was slumped beside the stall asleep. He awakened him and took him to the house, warning him tersely to keep quiet. In the warmth and light of the kitchen James saw the ragged, bloody sleeve of Peter s great-coat. The back of the coat was no more than torn strips of material. "My God, Peter! You said nothing . . . what ... oh, blessed Savior, what went on tonight?"
    Just beginning to recover from the grogginess of his collision with the tree, Peter looked at his sleeve as if he too just noticed it. "We . . . were at . . . Baker's."
    "Baker's!" James exploded. "My God, have you no sense? He's Foxe's tenant and foreman."
    Peter struggled to think. "That's why we went . . . but things went wrong ... he had guests and—"
    "And they caught you at it," James finished for him. "Pray God they didn't recognize you." He cut away Peter's coat, then stripped him of his bloodied shirt Across Peter's left shoulder and chest was a bright red band, turning purple, where he had hit the tree. The slash on his arm was long but fortunately not deep.
    "You won't be able to use this arm for much tomorrow," James said as he cleansed the wound. "There will be quite a scar, but I don't think it looks deep enough to have ruined the muscle. It should heal."
    "I'll be using it tomorrow. I can't let Frank see . . ."
    "You won't be here tomorrow," James snapped. "Your mother has been after me to take in that orphaned child of her cousin. Tomorrow you and I will be on our way to London to fetch the girl."
    "I can't go to London, Pa," Peter said, frowning, his head still unclear and hurting murderously. "Frank wants to . . ."
    "You're going to London. We'll talk no more about it. Here, drink this," James ordered, handing Peter a

    mug of steaming hot cider. "You're not fit to think in any case. You can barely speak clearly, and I haven't seen you keep your feet yet. You'll be lucky if your worst wound is your arm. How badly did you hit your head?"
    "I'm all right. It's not so bad," he said, then was forced to cradle his head in his hands.
    James shook his head morosely. "There's no way you can fool Albert this time. You've a wounded animal; you're wounded yourself, and half senseless. There's no story you can feed Albert to explain all that. You've given him exactly what he's been waiting for, Peter. Without proof he'd never touch you because of his own position and his affection for Natalie; but never doubt, Peter, that the man loathes you. He would find great satisfaction in being able to deliver you to the authorities as the elusive Captain Swing."
    "That's nonsense."
    "Nonsense? No one knows the identity of Captain Swing. But he is known to be an organizer, and he is educated ... all unusual qualities in a labor leader. And what are you but educated and known for your ability to move men? Who but you handles the hop pickers in autumn? And who but you has been speaking for the laborers at every yeoman meeting of late? Open your eyes, Peter. This has become very serious business. The parish is approaching panic over this rash of fires and rick burnings. They'd like nothing better than to think Captain Swing has been captured. It would give Albert and his yeomen an excuse to round up every malcontent in the parish. It would be quite a feather in Albert's cap, and at least in this area, it would bring an end to the Swing men."
    Peter rubbed his throbbing head with his good hand. "I cant hide this arm. . . ."

    "Not