warrior comrades into just the right mood for some mayhem. They had been sleeping rough for more than a fortnight since leaving Massachusetts, bathing in the cold, spring-fed brooks that flowed into the Battenkill, and eating irregularly. They had received their instructions and found their way easily to Temple Merton’s farm near Summit Lake, and watched the house from the margin of the woods when twilight stole over the property, and saw someone light the candles in the kitchen and a room adjacent, and watched as figures moved around in there. Rough living had also necessarily sharpened their senses, and even at this distance they could almost smell the comfort, cleanliness, and nourishment emanating from the establishment. The aroma of corn bread baking was enough to excite their most savage instincts. Six of the visitors stole down and brazenly entered the house through the open kitchen door while six waited in the woods. Once inside, they shoved the cook and the serving girl into the hallway.
