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THE

MAID-AT-ARMS

A Novel

By

Robert W. Chambers

Illustrated by

Howard Chandler Christy


1902


TO

MISS KATHARINE HUSTED




PREFACE

After a hundred years the history of a great war waged by a successful
nation is commonly reviewed by that nation with retrospective
complacency.

Distance dims the panorama; haze obscures the ragged gaps in the pageant
until the long lines of victorious armies move smoothly across the
horizon, with never an abyss to check their triumph.

Yet there is one people who cannot view the past through a mirage. The
marks of the birth-pangs remain on the land; its struggle for breath was
too terrible, its scars too deep to hide or cover.

For us, the pages of the past turn all undimmed; battles, brutally
etched, stand clear as our own hills against the sky--for in this land
we have no haze to soften truth.

Treading the austere corridor of our Pantheon, we, too, come at last to
victory--but what a victory! Not the familiar, gracious goddess,
wide-winged, crowned, bearing wreaths, but a naked, desperate creature,
gaunt, dauntless, turning her iron face to the west.

The trampling centuries can raise for us no golden dust to cloak the
flanks of the starved ranks that press across our horizon.

Our ragged armies muster in a pitiless glare of light, every man
distinct, every battle in detail.

Pangs that they suffered we suffer.

The faint-hearted who failed are judged by us as though they failed
before the nation yesterday; the brave are re-enshrined as we read; the
traitor, to us, is no grotesque Guy Fawkes, but a living Judas
of to-day.

We remember that Ethan Allen thundered on the portal of all earthly
kings at Ticonderoga; but we also remember that his hatred for the great
state of New York brought him and his men of Vermont perilously close to
the mire which defiled Charles Lee and Conway, and which engulfed poor
Benedict Arnold.

We follow Gates's army with painful sympathy to Saratoga, and there we
applaud a victory, but we turn from the commander in contempt, his
brutal, selfish, shallow nature all revealed.

We know him. We know them all--Ledyard, who died stainless, with his own
sword murdered; Herkimer, who died because he was not brave enough to do
his duty and be called a coward for doing it; Woolsey, the craven Major
at the Middle Fort, stammering filthy speeches in his terror when Sir
John Johnson's rangers closed in; Poor, who threw his life away for
vanity when that life belonged to the land! Yes, we know them
all--great, greater, and less great--our grandfather Franklin, who
trotted through a perfectly cold and selfishly contemptuous French
court, aged, alert, cheerful to the end; Schuyler, calm and
imperturbable, watching the North, which was his trust, and utterly
unmindful of self or of the pack yelping at his heels; Stark, Morgan,
Murphy, and Elerson, the brave riflemen; Spencer, the interpreter;
Visscher, Helmer, and the Stoners.

Into our horizon, too, move terrible shapes--not shadowy or lurid, but
living, breathing figures, who turn their eyes on us and hold out their
butcher hands: Walter Butler, with his awful smile; Sir John Johnson,
heavy and pallid--pallid, perhaps, with the memory of his broken
parole; Barry St. Leger, the drunken dealer in scalps; Guy Johnson,
organizer of wholesale murder; Brant, called Thayendanegea, brave,
terrible, faithful, but--a Mohawk; and that frightful she-devil, Catrine
Montour, in whose hot veins seethed savage blood and the blood of a
governor of Canada, who smote us, hip and thigh, until the brawling
brooks of Tryon ran blood!

No, there is no illusion for us; no splendid armies, banner--laden,
passing through unbroken triumphs across the sunset's glory; no winged
victory, with smooth brow laurelled to teach us to forget the holocaust.
Neither can we veil our history, nor soften our legends. Romance alone
can justify a theme inspired by truth; for Romance is more vital than
history, which, after all, is but the fleshless skeleton of Romance.

R.W.C.

BROADALBIN,

May 26, 1902.



CONTENTS

I. THE ROAD TO VARICKS'. II. IN THE HALLWAY. III. COUSINS. IV. SIR
LUPUS. V. A NIGHT AT THE PATROON'S. VI. DAWN. VII. AFTERMATH. VIII.
RIDING THE BOUNDS. IX. HIDDEN FIRE. X. TWO LESSONS. XI. LIGHTS AND
SHADOWS. XII. THE GHOST-RING. XIII. THE MAID-AT-ARMS. XIV. ON DUTY. XV.
THE FALSE-FACES. XVI. ON SCOUT. XVII. THE FLAG. XVIII. ORISKANY. XIX.
THE HOME TRAIL. XX. COCK-CROW. XXI. THE CRISIS. XXII. THE END OF THE
BEGINNING.



ILLUSTRATIONS

"I SAT DOWN HEAVILY IN HOMESICK SOLITUDE".

"YOU'RE MY COUSIN, GEORGE ORMOND, OR I'M THE FATTEST LIAR SOUTH OF
MONTREAL!".

"SHE SUFFERED US TO SALUTE HER HAND".

"NOW LOOSE ME--FOR THE FOREST ENDS!".

"THIS IS THE END, O YOU WISE MEN AND SACHEMS!".

"JACK MOUNT LOOMED A COLOSSAL FIGURE IN HIS BEADED BUCKSKINS".

"INSTANTLY MOUNT TRIPPED THE MAN".

"A STRANGE SHYNESS SEEMED TO HOLD US APART".



THE MAID-AT-ARMS

I

THE ROAD TO VARICKS'

We drew bridle at the cross-roads; he stretched his legs in his
stirrups, raised his arms, yawned, and dropped his huge hands upon
either thigh with a resounding slap.

"Well, good-bye," he said, gravely, but made no movement to leave me.

"Do we part here?" I asked, sorry to quit my chance acquaintance of the
Johnstown highway.

He nodded, yawned again, and removed his round cap of silver-fox fur to
scratch his curly head.

"We certainly do part at these cross-roads, if you are bound for
Varicks'," he said.

I waited a moment, then thanked him for the pleasant entertainment his
company had afforded me, and wished him a safe journey.

"A safe journey?" he repeated, carelessly. "Oh yes, of course; safe
journeys are rare enough in these parts. I'm obliged to you for the
thought. You are very civil, sir. Good-bye."

Yet neither he nor I gathered bridle to wheel our horses, but sat there
in mid-road, looking at each other.

"My name is Mount," he said at length; "let me guess yours. No, sir!
don't tell me. Give me three sportsman's guesses; my hunting-knife
against the wheat straw you are chewing!"

"With pleasure," I said, amused, "but you could scarcely guess it."

"Your name is Varick?"

I shook my head.

"Butler?"

"No. Look sharp to your knife, friend."

"Oh, then I have guessed it," he said, coolly; "your name is Ormond--and
I'm glad of it."

"Why are you glad of it?" I asked, curiously, wondering, too, at his
knowledge of me, a stranger.

"You will answer that question for yourself when you meet your kin, the
Varicks and Butlers," he said; and the reply had an insolent ring that
did not please me, yet I was loath to quarrel with this boyish giant
whose amiable company I had found agreeable on my long journey through a
land so new to me.

"My friend," I said, "you are blunt."

"Only in speech, sir," he replied, lazily swinging one huge leg over the
pommel of his saddle. Sitting at ease in the sunshine, he opened his
fringed hunting-shirt to the breeze blowing.

"So you go to the Varicks?" he mused aloud, eyes slowly closing in the
sunshine like the brilliant eyes of a basking lynx.

"Do you know the lord of the manor?" I asked.

"Who? The patroon?"

"I mean Sir Lupus Varick."

"Yes; I know him--I know Sir Lupus. We call him the patroon, though he's
not of the same litter as the Livingstons, the Cosbys, the Phillipses,
Van Rensselaers, and those feudal gentlemen who juggle with the high
justice, the middle, and the low--and who will juggle no more."

"Am I mistaken," said I, "in taking you for a Boston man?"

"In one sense you are," he said, opening his eyes. "I was born in
Vermont."

"Then you are a rebel?"

"Lord!" he said, laughing, "how you twist our English tongue! 'Tis his
Majesty across the waters who rebels at our home-made Congress."

"Is it not dangerous to confess such things to a stranger?" I asked,
smiling.

His bright eyes reassured me. "Not to all strangers," he drawled,
swinging his free foot over his horse's neck and settling his bulk on
the saddle. One big hand fell, as by accident, over the pan of his long
rifle. Watching, without seeming to, I saw his forefinger touch the
priming, stealthily, and find it dry.

"You are no King's man," he said, calmly.

"Oh, do you take me for a rebel, too?" I demanded.

"No, sir; you are neither the one nor the other--like a tadpole with
legs, neither frog nor pollywog. But you will be."

"Which?" I asked, laughing.

"My wisdom cannot draw that veil for you, sir," he said. "You may take
your chameleon color from your friends the Varicks and remain gray, or
from the Butlers and turn red, or from the Schuylers and turn blue
and buff."

"You credit me with little strength of character," I said.

"I credit you with some twenty-odd years and no experience."

"With nothing more?"

"Yes, sir; with sincerity and a Spanish rifle--which you may have need
of ere this month of May has melted into June."

I glanced at the beautiful Spanish weapon resting across my pommel.

"What do you know of the Varicks?" I asked, smiling.

"More than do you," he said, "for all that they are your kin. Look at
me, sir! Like myself, you wear deer-skin from throat to ankle, and your
nose is ever sniffing to windward. But this is a strange wind to you.
You see, you smell, but your eyes ask, 'What is it?' You are a woodsman,
but a stranger among your own kin. You have never seen a living Varick;
you have never even seen a partridge."

"Your wisdom is at fault there," I said, maliciously.

"Have you seen a Varick?"

"No; but the partridge--"

"Pooh! a little creature, like a gray meadow-lark remoulded! You call it
partridge, I call it quail. But I speak of the crested thunder--drumming
cock that struts all ruffed like a Spanish grandee of ancient times.
Wait, sir!" and he pointed to a string of birds' footprints in the dust
just ahead. "Tell me what manner of creature left its mark there?"

I leaned from my saddle, scanning the sign carefully, but the bird that
made it was a strange bird to me. Still bending from my saddle, I heard
his mocking laugh, but did not look up.

"You wear a lynx-skin for a saddle-cloth," he said, "yet that lynx never
squalled within a thousand miles of these hills."

"Do you mean to say there are no lynxes here?" I asked.

"Plenty, sir, but their ears bear no black-and-white marks. Pardon, I do
not mean to vex you; I read as I run, sir; it is my habit."

"So you have traced me on a back trail for a thousand miles--from
habit," I said, not exactly pleased.

"A thousand miles--by your leave."

"Or without it."

"Or without it--a thousand miles, sir, on a back trail, through forests
that blossom like gigantic gardens in May with flowers sweeter than our
white water-lilies abloom on trees that bear glossy leaves the year
round; through thickets that spread great, green, many-fingered hands at
you, all adrip with golden jasmine; where pine wood is fat as bacon;
where the two oaks shed their leaves, yet are ever in foliage; where the
thick, blunt snakes lie in the mud and give no warning when they deal
death. So far, sir, I trail you, back to the soil where your baby
fingers first dug--soil as white as the snow which you are yet to see
for the first time in your life of twenty-three years. A land where
there are no hills; a land where the vultures sail all day without
flapping their tip-curled wings; where slimy dragon things watch from
the water's edge; where Greek slaves sweat at indigo-vats that draw
vultures like carrion; where black men, toiling, sing all day on the
sea-islands, plucking cotton-blossoms; where monstrous horrors, hornless
and legless, wallow out to the sedge and graze like cattle--"

"Man! You picture a hell!" I said, angrily, "while I come from
paradise!"

"The outer edges of paradise border on hell," he said. "Wait! Sniff that
odor floating."

"It is jasmine!" I muttered, and my throat tightened with a homesick
spasm.

"It is the last of the arbutus," he said, dropping his voice to a gentle
monotone. "This is New York province, county of Tryon, sir, and yonder
bird trilling is not that gray minstrel of the Spanish orange-tree,
mocking the jays and the crimson fire-birds which sing 'Peet! peet!'
among the china-berries. Do you know the wild partridge-pea of the pine
barrens, that scatters its seeds with a faint report when the pods are
touched? There is in this land a red bud which has burst thundering into
crimson bloom, scattering seeds o' death to the eight winds. And every
seed breeds a battle, and every root drinks blood!"

He straightened in his stirrups, blue eyes ablaze, face burning under
its heavy mask of tan and dust.

"If I know a man when I see him, I know you," he said. "God save our
country, friend, upon this sweet May day."

"Amen, sir," I replied, tingling. "And God save the King the whole year
round!"

"Yes," he repeated, with a disagreeable laugh, "God save the King; he is
past all human aid now, and headed straight to hell. Friend, let us part
ere we quarrel. You will be with me or against me this day week. I knew
it was a man I addressed, and no tavern-post."

"Yet this brawl with Boston is no affair of mine," I said, troubled.
"Who touches the ancient liberties of Englishmen touches my country,
that is all I know."

"Which country, sir?"

"Greater Britain."

"And when Greater Britain divides?"

"It must not!"

"It has."

I unbound the scarlet handkerchief which I wore for a cap, and held it
between my fingers to dry its sweat in the breeze. Watching it
flutter, I said:

"Friend, in my country we never cross the branch till we come to it, nor
leave the hammock till the river-sands are beneath our feet. No
hunting-shirt is sewed till the bullet has done its errand, nor do men
fish for gray mullet with a hook and line. There is always time to pray
for wisdom."

"Friend," replied Mount, "I wear red quills on my moccasins, you wear
bits of sea-shell. That is all the difference between us. Good-bye.
Varick Manor is the first house four miles ahead."

He wheeled his horse, then, as at a second thought, checked him and
looked back at me.

"You will see queer folk yonder at the patroon's," he said. "You are
accustomed to the manners of your peers; you were bred in that land
where hospitality, courtesy, and deference are shown to equals; where
dignity and graciousness are expected from the elders; where duty and
humility are inbred in the young. So is it with us--except where you are
going. The great patroon families, with their vast estates, their
patents, their feudal systems, have stood supreme here for years. Theirs
is the power of life and death over their retainers; they reign absolute
in their manors, they account only to God for their trusts. And they are
great folk, sir, even yet--these Livingstons, these Van Rensselaers,
these Phillipses, lords of their manors still; Dutch of descent,
polished, courtly, proud, bearing the title of patroon as a noble bears
his coronet."

He raised his hand, smiling. "It is not so with the Varicks. They are
patroons, too, yet kin to the Johnsons, of Johnson Hall and Guy Park,
and kin to the Ormond-Butlers. But they are different from either
Johnson or Butler--vastly different from the Schuylers or the
Livingstons--"

He shrugged his broad shoulders and dropped his hand: "The Varicks are
all mad, sir. Good-bye."

He struck his horse with his soft leather heels; the animal bounded out
into the western road, and his rider swung around once more towards me
with a gesture partly friendly, partly, perhaps, in menace. "Tell Sir
Lupus to go to the devil!" he cried, gayly, and cantered away through
the golden dust.

I sat my horse to watch him; presently, far away on the hill's crest,
the sun caught his rifle and sparkled for a space, then the point of
white fire went out, and there was nothing on the hill-top save the
dust drifting.

Lonelier than I had yet been since that day, three months gone, when I
had set out from our plantation on the shallow Halifax, which the
hammock scarcely separates from the ocean, I gathered bridle with
listless fingers and spoke to my mare. "Isene, we must be moving
eastward--always moving, sweetheart. Come, lass, there's grain somewhere
in this Northern land where you have carried me." And to myself,
muttering aloud as I rode: "A fine name he has given to my cousins the
Varicks, this giant forest-runner, with his boy's face and limbs of
iron! And he was none too cordial concerning the Butlers,
either--cousins, too, but in what degree they must tell me, for I
don't know--"

The road entering the forest, I ceased my prattle by instinct, and again
for the thousandth time I sniffed at odors new to me, and scanned leafy
depths for those familiar trees which stand warden in our Southern
forests. There were pines, but they were not our pines, these feathery,
dark-stemmed trees; there were oaks, but neither our golden water oaks
nor our great, green-and-silver live-oaks. Little, pale flowers bloomed
everywhere, shadows only of our bright blossoms of the South; and the
rare birds I saw were gray and small, and chary of song, as though the
stillness that slept in this Northern forest was a danger not to be
awakened. Loneliness fell on me; my shoulders bent and my head hung
heavily. Isene, my mare, paced the soft forest-road without a sound, so
quietly that the squatting rabbit leaped from between her forelegs, and
the slim, striped, squirrel-like creatures crouched paralyzed as we
passed ere they burst into their shrill chatter of fright or anger, I
know not which.

Had I a night to spend in this wilderness I should not know where to
find a palmetto-fan for a torch, where to seek light-wood for splinter.
It was all new to me; signs read riddles; tracks were sealed books; the
east winds brought rain, where at home they bring heaven's own balm to
us of the Spanish grants on the seaboard; the northwest winds that we
dread turn these Northern skies to sapphire, and set bees a-humming on
every bud.

There was no salt in the air, no citrus scent in the breeze, no heavy
incense of the great magnolia bloom perfuming the wilderness like a
cathedral aisle where a young bride passes, clouded in lace.

But in the heat a heavy, sweetish odor hung; balsam it is called, and
mingled, too, with a faint scent like our bay, which comes from a woody
bush called sweet-fern. That, and the strong smell of the bluish,
short-needled pine, was ever clogging my nostrils and confusing me. Once
I thought to scent a 'possum, but the musky taint came from a rotting
log; and a stale fox might have crossed to windward and I not noticed,
so blunted had grown my nose in this unfamiliar Northern world.

Musing, restless, dimly confused, and doubly watchful, I rode through
the timber-belt, and out at last into a dusty, sunny road. And
straightway I sighted a house.

The house was of stone, and large and square and gray, with only a
pillared porch instead of the long double galleries we build; and it had
a row of windows in the roof, called dormers, and was surrounded by a
stockade of enormous timbers, in the four corners of which were set
little forts pierced for rifle fire.

Noble trees stood within the fortified lines; outside, green meadows
ringed the place; and the grass was thick and soft, and vivid as a green
jewel in color--such grass as we never see save for a spot here and
there in swampy places where the sun falls in early spring.

The house was yet a hundred rods away to the eastward. I rode on slowly,
noticing the neglected fences on either hand, and thought that my cousin
Varick might have found an hour to mend them, for his pride's sake.

Isene, my mare, had already scented the distant stables, and was
pricking forward her beautiful ears as I unslung my broad hat of plaited
palmetto and placed it on my head, the better to salute my hosts when I
should ride to their threshold in the Spanish fashion we followed
at home.

So, cantering on, I crossed a log bridge which spanned a ravine, below
which I saw a grist-mill; and so came to the stockade. The gate was open
and unguarded, and I guided my mare through without a challenge from the
small corner forts, and rode straight to the porch, where an ancient
<DW64> serving-man stood, dressed in a tawdry livery too large for him.
As I drew bridle he gave me a dull, almost sullen glance, and it was not
until I spoke sharply to him that he shambled forward and descended the
two steps to hold my stirrup.

"Is Sir Lupus at home?" I asked, looking curiously at this mute,
dull-eyed black, so different from our grinning lads at home.

"Yaas, suh, he done come home, suh."

"Then announce Mr. George Ormond," I said.

He stared, but did not offer to move.

"Did you hear me?" I asked, astonished.

"Yaas, suh, I done hear yoh, suh."

I looked him over in amazement, then walked past him towards the door.

"Is you gwine look foh Mars' Lupus?" he asked, barring my way with one
wrinkled, blue-black hand on the brass door-knob. "Kaze ef you is, you
don't had better, suh."

I could only stare.

"Kaze Mars' Lupus done say he gwine kill de fustest man what 'sturb him,
suh," continued the black man, in a listless monotone. "An' I spec' he
gwine do it."

"Is Sir Lupus abed at this hour?" I asked.

"Yaas, suh."

There was no emotion in the old man's voice. Something made me think
that he had given the same message to visitors many times.

I was very angry at the discourtesy, for he must have known when to
expect me from my servant, who had accompanied me by water with my boxes
from St. Augustine to Philadelphia, where I lingered while he went
forward, bearing my letter with him. Yet, angry and disgusted as I was,
there was nothing for me to do except to swallow the humiliation, walk
in, and twiddle my thumbs until the boorish lord of the manor waked to
greet his invited guest.

"I suppose I may enter," I said, sarcastically.

"Yaas, suh; Miss Dorry done say: 'Cato,' she say, 'ef de young gem'man
come when Mars' Lupus am drunk, jess take care n' him, Cato; put him
mos' anywhere 'cep in mah bed, Cato, an' jess call me ef I ain' busy
'bout mah business--'"

Still rambling on, he opened the door, and I entered a wide hallway,
dirty and disordered. As I stood hesitating, a terrific crash sounded
from the floor above.

"Spec' Miss Dorry busy," observed the old man, raising his solemn,
wrinkled face to listen.

"Uncle," I said, "is it true that you are all mad in this house?"

"We sho' is, suh," he replied, without interest.

"Are you too crazy to care for my horse?"

"Oh no, suh."

"Then go and rub her down, and feed her, and let me sit here in the
hallway. I want to think."

Another crash shook the ceiling of solid oak; very far away I heard a
young girl's laughter, then a stifled chorus of voices from the
floor above.

"Das Miss Dorry an' de chilluns," observed the old man.

"Who are the others?"

"Waal, dey is Miss Celia, an' Mars' Harry, an' Mars' Ruyven, an' Mars'
Sam'l, an' de babby, li'l Mars' Benny."

"All mad?"

"Yaas, suh."

"I'll be, too, if I remain here," I said. "Is there an inn near by?"

"De Turkle-dove an' Olives."

"Where?"

"'Bout five mile long de pike, suh."

"Feed my horse," I said, sullenly, and sat down on a settle, rifle
cradled between my knees, and in my heart wrath immeasurable against my
kin the Varicks.



II

IN THE HALLWAY

So this was Northern hospitality! This a Northern gentleman's home, with
its cobwebbed ceiling, its little window-panes opaque with stain of rain
and dust, its carpetless floors innocent of wax, littered with odds and
ends--here a battered riding-cane; there a pair of tarnished spurs;
yonder a scarlet hunting-coat a-trail on the banisters, with skirts all
mud from feet that mayhap had used it as a mat in rainy weather!

I leaned forward and picked up the riding-crop; its cane end was capped
with heavy gold. The spurs I also lifted for inspection; they were
beautifully wrought in silver.

Faugh! Here was no poverty, but the shiftlessness of a sot, trampling
good things into the mire!

I looked into the fireplace. Ashes of dead embers choked it; the
andirons, smoke-smeared and crusted, stood out stark against the sooty
maw of the hearth.

Still, for all, the hall was made in good and even noble proportion;
simple, as should be the abode of a gentleman; over-massive, perhaps,
and even destitute of those gracious and symmetrical galleries which we
of the South think no shame to take pride in; for the banisters were
brutally heavy, and the rail above like a rampart, and for a newel-post
some ass had set a bronze cannon, breech upward; and it was green and
beautiful, but offensive to sane consistency.

Standing, the better to observe the hall on all sides, it came to me
that some one had stripped a fine English mansion of fine but ancient
furniture, to bring it across an ocean and through a forest for the
embellishment of this coarse house. For there were pictures in frames
showing generals and statesmen of the Ormond-Butlers, one even of the
great duke who fled to France; and there were pictures of the Varicks
before they mingled with us Irish--apple-cheeked Dutchmen, cadaverous
youths bearing match-locks, and one, an admiral, with star and sash
across his varnish-cracked corselet of blue steel, looking at me with
pale, smoky eyes.

Rusted suits of mail, and groups of weapons made into star shapes and
circles, points outward, were ranged between the heavy pictures, each
centred with a moth-ravaged stag's head, smothered in dust.

As I slowly paced the panelled wall, nose in air to observe these
neglected trophies, I came to another picture, hung all alone near the
wall where it passes under the staircase, and at first, for the
darkness, I could not see.

Imperceptibly the outlines of the shape grew in the gloom from a deep,
rich background, and I made out a figure of a youth all cased in armor
save for the helmet, which was borne in one smooth, blue-veined hand.

The face, too, began to assume form; rounded, delicate, crowned with a
mass of golden hair; and suddenly I perceived the eyes, and they seemed
to open sweetly, like violets in a dim wood.

"What Ormond is this?" I muttered, bewitched, yet sullen to see such
feminine roundness in any youth; and, with my sleeve of buckskin, I
rubbed the dust from the gilded plate set in the lower frame.

"The Maid-at-Arms," I read aloud.

Then there came to me, at first like the far ring of a voice scarcely
heard through southern winds, the faint echo of a legend told me ere my
mother died--perhaps told me by her in those drifting hours of a
childhood nigh forgotten. Yet I seemed to see white, sun-drenched sands
and the long, blue swell of a summer sea, and I heard winds in the
palms, and a song--truly it was my mother's; I knew it now--and, of a
sudden, the words came borne on a whisper of ancient melody:

     "This for the deed she did at Ashby Farms,
     Helen of Ormond, Royal Maid-at-Arms!"

Memory was stirring at last, and the gray legend grew from the past, how
a maid, Helen of Ormond, for love of her cousin, held prisoner in his
own house at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, sheared off her hair, clothed her limbs
in steel, and rode away to seek him; and how she came to the house at
Ashby and rode straight into the gateway, forcing her horse to the great
hall where her lover lay, and flung him, all in chains, across her
saddle-bow, riding like a demon to freedom through the Desmonds, his
enemies. Ah! now my throat was aching with the memory of the song, and
of that strange line I never understood--"Wearing the ghost-ring!"--and,
of themselves, the words grew and died, formed on my silent lips:

     "This for the deed she did at Ashby Farms,
     Helen of Ormond, Royal Maid-at-Arms!

     "Though for all time the lords of Ormond be
     Butlers to Majesty,
     Yet shall new honors fall upon her
     Who, armored, rode for love to Ashby Farms;
     Let this her title be: A Maid-at-Arms!

     "Serene mid love's alarms,
     For all time shall the Maids-at-Arms,
     Wearing the ghost-ring, triumph with their constancy.
     And sweetly conquer with a sigh
     And vanquish with a tear
     Captains a trembling world might fear.

     "This for the deed she did at Ashby Farms,
     Helen of Ormond, Royal Maid-at-Arms!"

Staring at the picture, lips quivering with the soundless words, such
wretched loneliness came over me that a dryness in my throat set me
gulping, and I groped my way back to the settle by the fireplace and sat
down heavily in homesick solitude.

[Illustration: "I SAT DOWN HEAVILY IN HOMESICK SOLITUDE".]

Then hate came, a quick hatred for these Northern skies, and these
strangers of the North who dared claim kin with me, to lure me northward
with false offer of council and mockery of hospitality.

I was on my feet again in a flash, hot with anger, ready with insult to
meet insult, for I meant to go ere I had greeted my host--an insult,
indeed, and a deadly one among us. Furious, I bent to snatch my rifle
from the settle where it lay, and, as I flung it to my shoulder,
wheeling to go, my eyes fell upon a figure stealing down the stairway
from above, a woman in flowered silk, bare of throat and elbow, fingers
scarcely touching the banisters as she moved.

She hesitated, one foot poised for the step below; then it fell
noiselessly, and she stood before me.

Anger died out under the level beauty of her gaze. I bowed, just as I
caught a trace of mockery in the mouth's scarlet curve, and bowed the
lower for it, too, straightening slowly to the dignity her mischievous
eyes seemed to flout; and her lips, too, defied me, all silently--nay,
in every limb and from every finger-tip she seemed to flout me, and the
slow, deep courtesy she made me was too slow and far too low, and her
recovery a marvel of plastic malice.

"My cousin Ormond?" she lisped;--"I am Dorothy Varick."

We measured each other for a moment in silence.

There was a trace of powder on her bright hair, like a mist of snow on
gold; her gown's yoke was torn, for all its richness, and a wisp of lace
in rags fell, clouding the delicate half-sleeve of China silk.

Her face,  like palest ivory with rose, was no doll's face, for
all its symmetry and a forgotten patch to balance the dimple in her
rounded chin; it was even noble in a sense, and, if too chaste for
sensuous beauty, yet touched with a strange and pensive sweetness, like
'witched marble waking into flesh.

Suddenly a voice came from above: "Dorothy, come here!"

My cousin frowned, glanced at me, then laughed.

"Dorothy, I want my watch!" repeated the voice.

Still looking at me, my cousin slowly drew from her bosom a huge,
jewelled watch, and displayed it for my inspection.

"We were matching mint-dates with shillings for father's watch; I won
it," she observed.

"Dorothy!" insisted the voice.

"Oh, la!" she cried, impatiently, "will you hush?"

"No, I won't!"

"Then our cousin Ormond will come up-stairs and give you what Paddy gave
the kettle-drum--won't you?" she added, raising her eyes to me.

"And what was that?" I asked, astonished.

Somebody on the landing above went off into fits of laughter; and, as I
reddened, my cousin Dorothy, too, began to laugh, showing an edge of
small, white teeth under the red lip's line.

"Are you vexed because we laugh?" she asked.

My tongue stung with a retort, but I stood silent. These Varicks might
forget their manners, but I might not forget mine.

She honored me with a smile, sweeping me from head to foot with her
bright eyes. My buckskins were dirty from travel, and the thrums in
rags; and I knew that she noted all these matters.

"Cousin," she lisped, "I fear you are something of a macaroni."

Instantly a fresh volley of laughter rattled from the landing--such
clear, hearty laughter that it infected me, spite my chagrin.

"He's a good fellow, our cousin Ormond!" came a fresh young voice from
above.

"He shall be one of us!" cried another; and I thought to catch a glimpse
of a flowered petticoat whisked from the gallery's edge.

I looked at my cousin Dorothy Varick; she stood at gaze, laughter in her
eyes, but the mouth demure.

"Cousin Dorothy," said I, "I believe I am a good fellow, even though
ragged and respectable. If these qualities be not bars to your society,
give me your hand in fellowship, for upon my soul I am nigh sick for a
welcome from somebody in this unfriendly land."

Still at gaze, she slowly raised her arm and held out to me a fresh,
sun-tanned hand; and I had meant to press it, but a sudden shyness
scotched me, and, as the soft fingers rested in my palm, I raised them
and touched them with my lips in silent respect.

"You have pretty manners," she said, looking at her hand, but not
withdrawing it from where it rested. Then, of an impulse, her fingers
closed on mine firmly, and she looked me straight in the eye.

"You are a good comrade; welcome to Varicks', cousin Ormond!"

Our hands fell apart, and, glancing up, I perceived a group of youthful
barbarians on the stairs, intently watching us. As my eyes fell on them
they scattered, then closed in together defiantly. A red-haired lad of
seventeen came down the steps, offering his hand awkwardly.

"I'm Ruyven Varick," he said. "These girls are fools to bait men of our
age--" He broke off to seize Dorothy by the arm. "Give me that watch,
you vixen!"

His sister scornfully freed her arm, and Ruyven stood sullenly clutching
a handful of torn lace.

"Why don't you present us to our cousin Ormond?" spoke up a maid of
sixteen.

"Who wants to make your acquaintance?" retorted Ruyven, edging again
towards his sister.

I protested that I did; and Dorothy, with mock empressement, presented
me to Cecile Butler, a slender, olive-skinned girl with pretty, dark
eyes, who offered me her hand to kiss in such determined manner that I
bowed very low to cover my smile, knowing that she had witnessed my
salute to my cousin Dorothy and meant to take nothing less for herself.

"And those boys yonder are Harry Varick and Sam Butler, my cousins,"
observed Dorothy, nonchalantly relapsing into barbarism to point them
out separately with her pink-tipped thumb; "and that lad on the stairs
is Benny. Come on, we're to throw hunting-knives for pennies. Can
you?--but of course you can."

I looked around at my barbarian kin, who had produced hunters' knives
from recesses in their clothing, and now gathered impatiently around
Dorothy, who appeared to be the leader in their collective deviltries.

"All the same, that watch is mine," broke out Ruyven, defiantly. "I'll
leave it to our cousin Ormond--" but Dorothy cut in: "Cousin, it was
done in this manner: father lost his timepiece, and the law is that
whoever finds things about the house may keep them. So we all ran to
the porch where father had fallen off his horse last night, and I think
we all saw it at the same time; and I, being the older and stronger--"

"You're not the stronger!" cried Sam and Harry, in the same breath.

"I," repeated Dorothy, serenely, "being not only older than Ruyven by a
year, but also stronger than you all together, kept the watch, spite of
your silly clamor--and mean to keep it."

"Then we matched shillings for it!" cried Cecile.

"It was only fair; we all discovered it," explained Dorothy. "But Ruyven
matched with a Spanish piece where the date was under the reverse, and
he says he won. Did he, cousin?"

"Mint-dates always match!" said Ruyven; "gentlemen of our age understand
that, Cousin George, don't we?"

"Have I not won fairly?" asked Dorothy, looking at me. "If I have not,
tell me."

With that, Sam Butler and Harry set up a clamor that they and Cecile had
been unfairly dealt with, and all appealed to me until, bewildered, I
sat down on the stairs and looked wistfully at Dorothy.

"In Heaven's name, cousins, give me something to eat and drink before
you bring your lawsuits to me for judgment," I said.

"Oh," cried Dorothy, biting her lip, "I forgot. Come with me, cousin!"
She seized a bell-rope and rang it furiously, and a loud gong filled the
hall with its brazen din; but nobody came.

"Where the devil are those blacks?" said Dorothy, biting off her words
with a crisp snap that startled me more than her profanity. "Cato! Where
are you, you lazy--"

"Ahm hyah, Miss Dorry," came a patient voice from the kitchen stairs.

"Then bring something to eat--bring it to the gun-room
instantly--something for Captain Ormond--and a bottle of Sir Lupus's own
claret--and two glasses--"

"Three glasses!" cried Ruyven.

"Four!" "Five!" shouted Harry and Cecile.

"Six!" added Samuel; and little Benny piped out, "Theven!"

"Then bring two bottles, Cato," called out Dorothy.

"I want some small-beer!" protested Benny.

"Oh, go suck your thumbs," retorted Ruyven, with an elder brother's
brutality; but Dorothy ordered the small-beer, and bade the
<DW64> hasten.

"We all mean to bear you company, Cousin," said Ruyven, cheerfully,
patting my arm for my reassurance; and truly I lacked something of
assurance among these kinsmen of mine, who appeared to lack none.

"You spoke of me as Captain Ormond," I said, turning with a smile to
Dorothy.

"Oh, it's all one," she said, gayly; "if you're not a captain now, you
will be soon, I'll wager--but I'm not to talk of that before the
children--"

"You may talk of it before me," said Ruyven. "Harry, take Benny and Sam
and Cecile out of earshot--"

"Pooh!" cried Harry, "I know all about Sir John's new regiment--"

"Will you hush your head, you little fool!" cut in Dorothy. "Servants
and asses have long ears, and I'll clip yours if you bray again!"

The jingling of glasses on a tray put an end to the matter; Cato, the
black, followed by two more blacks, entered the hall bearing silver
salvers, and at a nod from Dorothy we all trooped after them.

"Guests first!" hissed Dorothy, in a fierce whisper, as Ruyven crowded
past me, and he slunk back, mortified, while Dorothy, in a languid
voice and with the air of a duchess, drawled, "Your arm, cousin," and
slipped her hand into my arm, tossing her head with a heavy-lidded,
insolent glance at poor Ruyven.

And thus we entered the gun-room, I with Dorothy Varick on my arm, and
behind me, though I was not at first aware of it, Harry, gravely
conducting Cecile in a similar manner, followed by Samuel and Benny,
arm-in-arm, while Ruyven trudged sulkily by himself.



III

COUSINS

There was a large, discolored table in the armory, or gun-room, as they
called it; and on this, without a cloth, our repast was spread by Cato,
while the other servants retired, panting and grinning like over-fat
hounds after a pack-run.

And, by Heaven! they lacked nothing for solid silver, my cousins the
Varicks, nor yet for fine glass, which I observed without appearance of
vulgar curiosity while Cato carved a cold joint of butcher's roast and
cracked the bottles of wine--a claret that perfumed the room like a
garden in September.

"Cousin Dorothy, I have the honor to raise my glass to you," I said.

"I drink your health, Cousin George," she said, gravely--"Benny, let
that wine alone! Is there no small-beer there, that you go coughing and
staining your bib over wine forbidden? Take his glass away, Ruyven! Take
it quick, I say!"

Benny, deprived of his claret, collapsed moodily into a heap, and sat
swinging his legs and clipping the table, at every kick of his shoon,
until my wine danced in my glass and soiled the table.

"Stop that, you!" cried Cecile.

Benny subsided, scowling.

Though Dorothy was at some pains to assure me that they had dined but an
hour before, that did not appear to blunt their appetites. And the
manner in which they drank astonished me, a glass of wine being
considered sufficient for young ladies at home, and a half-glass for
lads like Harry and Sam. Yet when I emptied my glass Dorothy emptied
hers, and the servants refilled hers when they refilled mine, till I
grew anxious and watched to see that her face flushed not, but had my
anxiety for my pains, as she changed not a pulse-beat for all the red
wine she swallowed.

And Lord! how busy were her little white teeth, while her pretty eyes
roved about, watchful that order be kept at this gypsy repast. Cecile
and Harry fell to struggling for a glass, which snapped and flew to
flakes under their clutching fingers, drenching them with claret.

"Silence!" cried Dorothy, rising, eyes ablaze. "Do you wish our cousin
Ormond to take us for manner-less savages?"

"Why not?" retorted Harry. "We are!"

"Oh, Lud!" drawled Cecile, languidly fanning her flushed face, "I would
I had drunk small-beer--Harry, if you kick me again I'll pinch!"

"It's a shame," observed Ruyven, "that gentlemen of our age may not take
a glass of wine together in comfort."

"Your age!" laughed Dorothy. "Cousin Ormond is twenty-three, silly, and
I'm eighteen--or close to it."

"And I'm seventeen," retorted Ruyven.

"Yet I throw you at wrestling," observed Dorothy, with a shrug.

"Oh, your big feet! Who can move them?" he rejoined.

"Big feet? Mine?" She bent, tore a satin shoe from her foot, and slapped
it down on the table in challenge to all to equal it--a small,
silver-buckled thing of Paddington's make, with a smart red heel and a
slender body, slim as the crystal slipper of romance.

There was no denying its shapeliness; presently she removed it, and,
stooping, slowly drew it on her foot.

"Is that the shoe Sir John drank your health from?" sneered Ruyven.

A rich flush mounted to Dorothy's hair, and she caught at her wine-glass
as though to throw it at her brother.

"A married man, too," he laughed--"Sir John Johnson, the fat baronet of
the Mohawks--"

"Damn you, will you hold your silly tongue?" she cried, and rose to
launch the glass, but I sprang to my feet, horrified and astounded, arm
outstretched.

"Ruyven," I said, sharply, "is it you who fling such a taunt to shame
your own kin? If there is aught of impropriety in what this man Sir John
has done, is it not our affair with him in place of a silly gibe
at Dorothy?"

"I ask pardon," stammered Ruyven; "had there been impropriety in what
that fool, Sir John, did I should not have spoke, but have acted long
since, Cousin Ormond."

"I'm sure of it," I said, warmly. "Forgive me, Ruyven."

"Oh, la!" said Dorothy, her lips twitching to a smile, "Ruyven only said
it to plague me. I hate that baronet, and Ruyven knows it, and harps
ever on a foolish drinking-bout where all fell to the table, even Walter
Butler, and that slow adder Sir John among the first. And they do say,"
she added, with scorn, "that the baronet did find one of my old shoon
and filled it to my health--damn him!--"

"Dorothy!" I broke in, "who in Heaven's name taught you such shameful
oaths?"

"Oaths?" Her face burned scarlet. "Is it a shameful oath to say 'Damn
him'?"

"It is a common oath men use--not gentlewomen," I said.

"Oh! I supposed it harmless. They all laugh when I say it--father and
Guy Johnson and the rest; and they swear other oaths--words I would not
say if I could--but I did not know there was harm in a good
smart 'damn!'"

She leaned back, one slender hand playing with the stem of her glass;
and the flush faded from her face like an afterglow from a
serene horizon.

"I fear," she said, "you of the South wear a polish we lack."

"Best mirror your faults in it while you have the chance," said Harry,
promptly.

"We lack polish--even Walter Butler and Guy Johnson sneer at us under
father's nose," said Ruyven. "What the devil is it in us Varicks that
set folk whispering and snickering and nudging one another? Am I
parti-, like an Oneida at a scalp-dance? Does Harry wear bat's
wings for ears? Are Dorothy's legs crooked, that they all stare?"

"It's your red head," observed Cecile. "The good folk think to see the
noon-sun setting in the wood--"

"Oh, tally! you always say that," snapped Ruyven.

Dorothy, leaning forward, looked at me with dreamy blue eyes that saw
beyond me.

"We are doubtless a little mad, ... as they say," she mused. "Otherwise
we seem to be like other folk. We have clothing befitting, when we
choose to wear it; we were schooled in Albany; we are people of quality,
like the other patroons; we lack nothing for servants or tenants--what
ails them all, to nudge and stare and grin when we pass?"

"Mr. Livingston says our deportment shocks all," murmured Cecile.

"The Schuylers will have none of us," added Harry, plaintively--"and I
admire them, too."

"Oh, they all conduct shamefully when I go to school in Albany," burst
out Sammy; "and I thrashed that puling young patroon, too, for he saw me
and refused my salute. But I think he will render me my bow next time."

"Do the quality not visit you here?" I asked Dorothy.

"Visit us? No, cousin. Who is to receive them? Our mother is dead."

Cecile said: "Once they did come, but Uncle Varick had that mistress of
Sir John's to sup with them and they took offence."

"Mrs. Van Cortlandt said she was a painted hussy--" began Harry.

"The Van Rensselaers left the house, vowing that Sir Lupus had used them
shamefully," added Cecile; "and Sir Lupus said: 'Tush! tush! When the
Van Rensselaers are too good for the Putnams of Tribes Hill I'll eat my
spurs!' and then he laughed till he cried."

"They never came again; nobody of quality ever came; nobody ever comes,"
said Ruyven.

"Excepting the Johnsons and the Butlers," corrected Sammy.

"And then everybody geths tight; they were here lath night and Uncle
Varick is sthill abed," said little Benny, innocently.

"Will you all hold your tongues?" cried Dorothy, fiercely. "Father said
we were not to tell anybody that Sir John and the Ormond-Butlers
visited us."

"Why not?" I asked.

Dorothy clasped both hands under her chin, rested her bare elbows on the
table, and leaned close to me, whispering confidentially: "Because of
the war with the Boston people. The country is overrun with
rebels--rebel troops at Albany, rebel gunners at Stanwix, rebels at
Edward and Hunter and Johnstown. A scout of ten men came here last week;
they were harrying a war-party of Brant's Mohawks, and Stoner was with
them, and that great ox in buckskin, Jack Mount. And do you know what he
said to father? He said, 'For Heaven's sake, turn red or blue, Sir
Lupus, for if you don't we'll hang you to a crab-apple and chance the
color.' And father said, 'I'm no partisan King's man'; and Jack Mount
said, 'You're the joker of the pack, are you?' And father said, 'I'm not
in the shuffle, and you can bear me out, you rogue!' And then Jack Mount
wagged his big forefinger at him and said, 'Sir Lupus, if you're but a
joker, one or t'other side must discard you!' And they rode away,
priming their rifles and laughing, and father swore and shook his
cane at them."

In her eagerness her lips almost touched my ear, and her breath warmed
my cheek.

"All that I saw and heard," she whispered, "and I know father told
Walter Butler, for a scout came yesterday, saying that a scout from the
Rangers and the Royal Greens had crossed the hills, and I saw some of
Sir John's Scotch loons riding like warlocks on the new road, and that
great fool, Francy McCraw, tearing along at their head and crowing
like a cock."

"Cousin, cousin," I protested, "all this--all these names--even the
causes and the manners of this war, are incomprehensible to me."

"Oh," she said, in surprise, "have you in Florida not heard of our war?"

"Yes, yes--all know that war is with you, but that is all. I know that
these Boston men are fighting our King; but why do the Indians
take part?"

She looked at me blankly, and made a little gesture of dismay.

"I see I must teach you history, cousin," she said. "Father tells us
that history is being made all about us in these days--and, would you
believe it? Benny took it that books were being made in the woods all
around the house, and stole out to see, spite of the law that
father made--"

"Who thaw me?" shouted Benny.

"Hush! Be quiet!" said Dorothy.

Benny lay back in his chair and beat upon the table, howling defiance at
his sister through Harry's shouts of laughter.

"Silence!" cried Dorothy, rising, flushed and furious. "Is this a
corn-feast, that you all sit yelping in a circle? Ruyven, hold that
door, and see that no one follows us--"

"What for?" demanded Ruyven, rising. "If you mean to keep our cousin
Ormond to yourself--"

"I wish to discuss secrets with my cousin Ormond," said Dorothy,
loftily, and stepped from her chair, nose in the air, and that
heavy-lidded, insolent glance which once before had withered Ruyven, and
now withered him again.

"We will go to the play-room," she whispered, passing me; "that room has
a bolt; they'll all be kicking at the door presently. Follow me."

Ere we had reached the head of the stairs we heard a yell, a rush of
feet, and she laughed, crying: "Did I not say so? They are after us now
full bark! Come!"

She caught my hand in hers and sped up the few remaining steps, then
through the upper hallway, guiding me the while her light feet flew; and
I, embarrassed, bewildered, half laughing, half shamed to go a-racing
through a strange house in such absurd a fashion.

"Here!" she panted, dragging me into a great, bare chamber and bolting
the door, then leaned breathless against the wall to listen as the chase
galloped up, clamoring, kicking and beating on panel and wall, baffled.

"They're raging to lose their new cousin," she breathed, smiling across
at me with a glint of pride in her eyes. "They all think mightily of
you, and now they'll be mad to follow you like hound-pups the whip, all
day long." She tossed her head. "They're good lads, and Cecile is a
sweet child, too, but they must be made to understand that there are
moments when you and I desire to be alone together."

"Of course," I said, gravely.

"You and I have much to consider, much to discuss in these uncertain
days," she said, confidently. "And we cannot babble matters of import to
these children--"

"I'm seventeen!" howled Ruyven, through the key-hole. "Dorothy's not
eighteen till next month, the little fool--"

"Don't mind him," said Dorothy, raising her voice for Ruyven's benefit.
"A lad who listens to his elders through a key-hole is not fit for
serious--"

A heavy assault on the door drowned Dorothy's voice. She waited calmly
until the uproar had subsided.

"Let us sit by the window," she said, "and I will tell you how we
Varicks stand betwixt the deep sea and the devil."

"I wish to come in!" shouted Ruyven, in a threatening voice. Dorothy
laughed, and pointed to a great arm-chair of leather and oak. "I will
sit there; place it by the window, cousin."

I placed the chair for her; she seated herself with unconscious grace,
and motioned me to bring another chair for myself.

"Are you going to let me in?" cried Ruyven.

"Oh, go to the--" began Dorothy, then flushed and glanced at me, asking
pardon in a low voice.

A nice parent, Sir Lupus, with every child in his family ready to swear
like Flanders troopers at the first breath!

Half reclining in her chair, limbs comfortably extended, Dorothy crossed
her ankles and clasped her hands behind her head, a picture of indolence
in every line and curve, from satin shoon to the dull gold of her hair,
which, as I have said, the powder scarcely frosted.

"To comprehend properly this war," she mused, more to herself than to
me, "I suppose it is necessary to understand matters which I do not
understand; how it chanced that our King lost his city of Boston, and
why he has not long since sent his soldiers here into our county
of Tryon."

"Too many rebels, cousin," I suggested, flippantly. She disregarded me,
continuing quietly;

"But this much, however, I do understand, that our province of New York
is the centre of all this trouble; that the men of Tryon hold the last
pennyweight, and that the balanced scales will tip only when we patroons
cast in our fortunes, ... either with our King or with the rebel
Congress which defies him. I think our hearts, not our interests, must
guide us in this affair, which touches our honor."

Such pretty eloquence, thoughtful withal, was not what I had looked for
in this new cousin of mine--this free-tongued maid, who, like a painted
peach-fruit all unripe, wears the gay livery of maturity, tricking the
eye with a false ripeness.

"I have thought," she said, "that if the issues of this war depend on
us, we patroons should not draw sword too hastily--yet not to sit like
house-cats blinking at this world-wide blaze, but, in the full flood of
the crisis, draw!--knowing of our own minds on which side lies
the right."

"Who taught you this?" I asked, surprised to over-bluntness.

"Who taught me? What? To think?" She laughed. "Solitude is a rare spur
to thought. I listen to the gentlemen who talk with father; and I would
gladly join and have my say, too, but that they treat me like a fool,
and I have my questions for my pains. Yet I swear I am dowered with more
sense than Sir John Johnson, with his pale eyes and thick, white flesh,
and his tarnished honor to dog him like the shadow of a damned man sold
to Satan--"

"Is he dishonored?"

"Is a parole broken a dishonor? The Boston people took him and placed
him on his honor to live at Johnson Hall and do no meddling. And now
he's fled to Fort Niagara to raise the Mohawks. Is that honorable?"

After a moment I said: "But a moment since you told me that Sir John
comes here."

She nodded. "He comes and gees in secret with young Walter Butler--one
of your Ormond-Butlers, cousin--and old John Butler, his father, Colonel
of the Rangers, who boast they mean to scalp the whole of Tryon County
ere this blood-feud is ended. Oh, I have heard them talk and talk,
drinking o' nights in the gun-room, and the escort's horses stamping at
the porch with a man to each horse, to hold the poor brutes' noses lest
they should neigh and wake the woods. Councils of war, they call them,
these revels; but they end ever the same, with Sir John borne off to bed
too drunk to curse the slaves who shoulder his fat bulk, and Walter
Butler, sullen, stunned by wine, a brooding thing of malice carved in
stone; and father roaring his same old songs, and beating time with his
long pipe till the stem snaps, and he throws the glowing bowl at Cato--"

"Dorothy, Dorothy," I said, "are these the scenes you find already too
familiar?"

"Stale as last month's loaf in a ratty cupboard."

"Do they not offend you?"

"Oh, I am no prude--"

"Do you mean to say Sir Lupus sanctions it?"

"What? My presence? Oh, I amuse them; they dress me in Ruyven's clothes
and have me to wine--lacking a tenor voice for their songs--and at
first, long ago, their wine made me stupid, and they found rare sport in
baiting me; but now they tumble, one by one, ere the wine's fire touches
my face, and father swears there is no man in County Tryon can keep our
company o' nights and show a steady pair of legs like mine to bear him
bedwards."

After a moment's silence I said: "Are these your Northern customs?"

"They are ours--and the others of our kind. I hear the plain folk of the
country speak ill of us for the free life we lead at home--I mean the
Palatines and the canting Dutch, not our tenants, though what even they
may think of the manor house and of us I can only suspect, for they are
all rebels at heart, Sir John says, and wear blue noses at the first run
o' king's cider."

She gave a reckless laugh and crossed her knees, looking at me under
half-veiled lids, smooth and pure as a child's.

"Food for the devil, they dub us in the Palatine church," she added,
yawning, till I could see all her small, white teeth set in rose.

A nice nest of kinsmen had I uncovered in this hard, gray Northern
forest! The Lord knows, we of the South do little penance for the
pleasures a free life brings us under the Southern stars, yet such
license as this is not to our taste, and I think a man a fool to teach
his children to review with hardened eyes home scenes suited to
a tavern.

Yet I was a guest, having accepted shelter and eaten salt; and I might
not say my mind, even claiming kinsman's privilege to rebuke what seemed
to me to touch the family honor.

Staring through the unwashed window-pane, moodily brooding on what I had
learned, I followed impatiently the flight of those small, gray swallows
of the North, colorless as shadows, whirling in spirals above the cold
chimneys, to tumble in like flakes of gray soot only to drift out again,
wind--blown, aimless, irrational, senseless things. And again that
hatred seized me for all this pale Northern world, where the very birds
gyrated like moon-smitten sprites, and the white spectre of virtue sat
amid orgies where bloodless fools caroused.

"Are you homesick, cousin?" she asked.

"Ay--if you must know the truth!" I broke out, not meaning to say my
fill and ease me. "This is not the world; it is a gray inferno, where
shades rave without reason, where there is no color, no repose, nothing
but blankness and unreason, and an air that stings all living life to
spasms of unrest. Your sun is hot, yet has no balm; your winds plague
the skin and bones of a man; the forests are unfriendly; the waters all
hurry as though bewitched! Brooks are cold and tasteless as the fog; the
unsalted, spiceless air clogs the throat and whips the nerves till the
very soul in the body strains, fluttering to be free! How can decent
folk abide here?"

I hesitated, then broke into a harsh laugh, for my cousin sat staring at
me, lips parted, like a fair shape struck into marble by a breath
of magic.

"Pardon," I said. "Here am I, kindly invited to the council of a family
whose interests lie scattered through estates from the West Indies to
the Canadas, and I requite your hospitality by a rudeness I had not
believed was in me."

I asked her pardon again for the petty outburst of an untravelled
youngster whose first bath in this Northern air-ocean had chilled his
senses and his courtesy.

"There is a land," I said, "where lately the gray bastions of St.
Augustine reflected the gold and red of Spanish banners, and the blue
sea mirrors a bluer sky. We Ormonds came there from the Western Indies,
then drifted south, skirting the Matanzas to the sea islands on the
Halifax, where I was born, an Englishman on Spanish soil, and have lived
there, knowing no land but that of Florida, treading no city streets
save those walled lanes of ancient Augustine. All this vast North is new
to me, Dorothy; and, like our swamp-haunting Seminoles, my rustic's
instinct finds hostility in what is new and strange, and I forget my
breeding in this gray maze which half confuses, half alarms me."

"I am not offended," she said, smiling, "only I wonder what you find
distasteful here. Is it the solitude?"

"No, for we also have that."

"Is it us?"

"Not you, Dorothy, nor yet Ruyven, nor the others. Forget what I said.
As the Spaniards have it, 'Only a fool goes travelling,' and I'm not too
notorious for my wisdom, even in Augustine. If it be the custom of the
people here to go mad, I'll not sit in a corner croaking, 'Repent and
be wise!' If the Varicks and the Butlers set the pace, I promise you to
keep the quarry, Mistress Folly, in view--perhaps outfoot you all to
Bedlam!... But, cousin, if you, too, run this uncoupled race with the
pack, I mean to pace you, neck and neck, like a keen whip, ready to turn
and lash the first who interferes with you."

"With me?" she repeated, smiling. "Am I a youngster to be coddled and
protected? You have not seen our hunting. I lead, my friend;
you follow."

She unclasped her arms, which till now had held her bright head cradled,
and sat up, hands on her knees, grave as an Egyptian goddess
guarding tombs.

"I'll wager I can outrun you, outshoot you, outride you, throw you at
wrestle, cast the knife or hatchet truer than can you, catch more fish
than you--and bigger ones at that!"

With an impatient gesture, peculiarly graceful, like the half-salute of
a friendly swordsman ere you draw and stand on guard:

"Read the forest with me. I can outread you, sign for sign, track for
track, trail in and trail out! The forest is to me Te-ka-on-do-duk [the
place with a sign-post]. And when the confederacy speaks with five
tongues, and every tongue split into five forked dialects, I make no
answer in finger-signs, as needs must you, my cousin of the
Se-a-wan-ha-ka [the land of shells]. We speak to the Iroquois with our
lips, we People of the Morning. Our hands are for our rifles! Hiro [I
have spoken]!"

She laughed, challenging me with eye and lip.

"And if you defy me to a bout with bowl or bottle I will not turn
coward, neah-wen-ha [I thank you]! but I will drink with you and let my
father judge whose legs best carry him to bed! Koue! Answer me, my
cousin, Tahoontowhe [the night hawk]."

We were laughing now, yet I knew she had spoken seriously, and to plague
her I said: "You boast like a Seminole chanting the war-song."

"I dare you to cast the hatchet!" she cried, reddening.

"Dare me to a trial less rude," I protested, laughing the louder.

"No, no! Come!" she said, impatient, unbolting the heavy door; and,
willy-nilly, I followed, meeting the pack all sulking on the stairs, who
rose to seize me as I came upon them.

"Let him alone!" cried Dorothy; "he says he can outcast me with the
war-hatchet! Where is my hatchet? Sammy! Ruyven! find hatchets and come
to the painted post."

"Sport!" cried Harry, leaping down-stairs before us. "Cecile, get your
hatchet--get mine, too! Come on, Cousin Ormond, I'll guide you; it's the
painted post by the spring--and hark, Cousin George, if you beat her
I'll give you my silvered powder-horn!"

Cecile and Sammy hastened up, bearing in their arms the slim
war-hatchets, cased in holsters of bright-beaded hide, and we took our
weapons and started, piloted by Harry through the door, and across the
shady, unkempt lawn to the stockade gate.

Dorothy and I walked side by side, like two champions in amiable confab
before a friendly battle, intimately aloof from the gaping crowd which
follows on the flanks of all true greatness.

Out across the deep-green meadow we marched, the others trailing on
either side with eager advice to me, or chattering of contests past,
when Walter Butler and Brant--he who is now war-chief of the loyal
Mohawks--cast hatchets for a silver girdle, which Brant wears still; and
the patroon, and Sir John, and all the great folk from Guy Park were
here a-betting on the Mohawk, which, they say, so angered Walter Butler
that he lost the contest. And that day dated the silent enmity between
Brant and Butler, which never healed.

This I gathered amid all their chit-chat while we stood under the
willows near the spring, watching Ruyven pace the distance from the post
back across the greensward towards us.

Then, making his heel-mark in the grass, he took a green willow wand and
set it, all feathered, in the turf.

"Is it fair for Dorothy to cast her own hatchet?" asked Harry.

"Give me Ruyven's," she said, half vexed. Aught that touched her sense
of fairness sent a quick flame of anger to her cheeks which I admired.

"Keep your own hatchet, cousin," I said; "you may have need of it."

"Give me Ruyven's hatchet," she repeated, with a stamp of her foot which
Ruyven hastened to respect. Then she turned to me, pink with defiance:

"It is always a stranger's honor," she said; so I advanced, drawing my
light, keen weapon from its beaded sheath, which I had belted round me;
and Ruyven took station by the post, ten paces to the right.

The post was painted scarlet, ringed with white above; below, in
outline, the form of a man--an Indian--with folded arms, also drawn in
white paint. The play was simple; the hatchet must imbed its blade close
to the outlined shape, yet not "wound" or "draw blood."

"Brant at first refused to cast against that figure," said Harry,
laughing. "He consented only because the figure, though Indian, was
painted white."

I scarce heard him as I stood measuring with my eyes the distance. Then,
taking one step forward to the willow wand, I hurled the hatchet, and it
landed quivering in the shoulder of the outlined figure on the post.

"A wound!" cried Cecile; and, mortified, I stepped back, biting my lip,
while Harry notched one point against me on the willow wand and Dorothy,
tightening her girdle, whipped out her bright war-axe and stepped
forward. Nor did she even pause to scan the post; her arm shot up, the
keen axe-blade glittered and flew, sparkling and whirling, biting into
the post, chuck! handle a-quiver. And you could not have laid a June
willow-leaf betwixt the Indian's head and the hatchet's blade.

She turned to me, lips parted in a tormenting smile, and I praised the
cast and took my hatchet from Ruyven to try once more. Yet again I broke
skin on the thigh of the pictured captive; and again the glistening axe
left Dorothy's hand, whirring to a safe score, a grass-stem's width from
the Indian's head.

I understood that I had met my master, yet for the third time strove;
and my axe whistled true, standing point-bedded a finger's breadth from
the cheek.

"Can you mend that, Dorothy?" I asked, politely.

She stood smiling, silent, hatchet poised, then nodded, launching the
axe. Crack! came the handles of the two hatchets, and rattled together.
But the blade of her hatchet divided the space betwixt my blade and the
painted face, nor touched the outline by a fair hair's breadth.

Astonishment was in my face, not chagrin, but she misread me, for the
triumph died out in her eyes, and, "Oh!" she said; "I did not mean to
win--truly I did not," offering her hands in friendly amend.

But at my quick laugh she brightened, still holding my hands, regarding
me with curious eyes, brilliant as amethysts.

"I was afraid I had hurt your pride--before these silly children--" she
began.

"Children!" shouted Ruyven. "I bet you ten shillings he can outcast you
yet!"

"Done!" she flashed, then, all in a breath, smiled adorably and shook
her head. "No, I'll not bet. He could win if he chose. We understand
each other, my cousin Ormond and I," and gave my hands a little friendly
shake with both of hers, then dropped them to still Ruyven's clamor
for a wager.

"You little beast!" she said, fiercely; "is it courteous to pit your
guests like game-cocks for your pleasure?"

"You did it yourself!" retorted Ruyven, indignantly--"and entered the
pit yourself."

"For a jest, silly! There were no bets. Now frown and vapor and wag your
finger--do! What do you lack? I will wrestle you if you wait until I don
my buckskins. No? A foot-race?--and I'll bet you your ten shillings on
myself! Ten to five--to three--to one! No? Then hush your silly head!"

"Because," said Ruyven, sullenly, coming up to me, "she can outrun me
with her long legs, she gives herself the devil's own airs and graces.
There's no living with her, I tell you. I wish I could go to the war."

"You'll have to go when father declares himself," observed Dorothy,
quietly polishing her hatchet on its leather sheath.

"But he won't declare for King or Congress," retorted the boy.

"Wait till they start to plague us," murmured Dorothy. "Some fine July
day cows will be missed, or a barn burned, or a shepherd found scalped.
Then you'll see which way the coin spins!"

"Which way will it spin?" demanded Ruyven, incredulous yet eager.

"Ask that squirrel yonder," she said, briefly.

"Thanks; I've asked enough of chatterers," he snapped out, and came to
the tree where we were sitting in the shadow on the cool, thick carpet
of the grass--such grass as I had never seen in that fair Southland
which I loved.

The younger children gathered shyly about me, their active tongues
suddenly silent, as though, all at once, they had taken a sudden alarm
to find me there.

The reaction of fatigue was settling over me--for my journey had been a
long one that day--and I leaned my back against the tree and yawned,
raising my hand to hide it.

"I wonder," I said, "whether anybody here knows if my boxes and servant
have arrived from Philadelphia."

"Your boxes are in the hallway by your bed-chamber," said Dorothy. "Your
servant went to Johnstown for news of you--let me see--I think it was
Saturday--"

"Friday," said Ruyven, looking up from the willow wand which he was
peeling.

"He never came back," observed Dorothy. "Some believe he ran away to
Albany, some think the Boston people caught him and impressed him to
work on the fort at Stanwix."

I felt my face growing hot.

"I should like to know," said I, "who has dared to interfere with my
servant."

"So should I," said Ruyven, stoutly. "I'd knock his head off." The
others stared. Dorothy, picking a meadow-flower to pieces, smiled
quietly, but did not look up.

"What do you think has happened to my black?" I asked, watching her.

"I think Walter Butler's men caught him and packed him off to Fort
Niagara," she said.

"Why do you believe that?" I asked, angrily.

"Because Mr. Butler came here looking for boat-men; and I know he tried
to bribe Cato to go. Cato told me." She turned sharply to the others.
"But mind you say nothing to Sir Lupus of this until I choose to
tell him!"

"Have you proof that Mr. Butler was concerned in the disappearance of my
servant?" I asked, with an unpleasant softness in my voice.

"No proof," replied Dorothy, also very softly.

"Then I may not even question him," I said.

"No, you can do nothing--now."

I thought a moment, frowning, then glanced up to find them all intently
watching me.

"I should like," said I, "to have a tub of clean water and fresh
clothing, and to sleep for an hour ere I dress to dine with Sir Lupus.
But, first, I should like to see my mare, that she is well bedded and--"

"I'll see to her," said Dorothy, springing to her feet. "Ruyven, do you
tell Cato to wait on Captain Ormond." And to Harry and Cecile: "Bowl on
the lawn if you mean to bowl, and not in the hallway, while our cousin
is sleeping." And to Benny: "If you tumble or fall into any foolishness,
see that you squall no louder than a kitten mewing. Our cousin means to
sleep for a whole hour."

As I rose, nodding to them gravely, all their shy deference seemed to
return; they were no longer a careless, chattering band, crowding at my
elbows to pluck my sleeves with, "Oh, Cousin Ormond" this, and "Listen,
cousin," that; but they stood in a covey, close together, a trifle awed
at my height, I suppose; and Ruyven and Dorothy conducted me with a new
ceremony, each to outvie the other in politeness of language and
deportment, calling to my notice details of the scenery in stilted
phrases which nigh convulsed me, so that I could scarce control the set
gravity of my features.

At the house door they parted company with me, all save Ruyven and
Dorothy. The one marched off to summon Cato; the other stood silent, her
head a little on one side, contemplating a spot of sunlight on the
dusty floor.

"About young Walter Butler," she began, absently; "be not too short and
sharp with him, cousin."

"I hope I shall have no reason to be too blunt with my own kin," I said.

"You may have reason--" She hesitated, then, with a pretty confidence in
her eyes, "For my sake please to pass provocation unnoticed. None will
doubt your courage if you overlook and refuse to be affronted."

"I cannot pass an affront," I said, bluntly. "What do you mean? Who is
this quarrelsome Mr. Butler?"

"An Ormond-Butler," she said, earnestly; "but--but he has had trouble--a
terrible disappointment in love, they say. He is morose at times--a
sullen, suspicious man, one of those who are ever seeking for offence
where none is dreamed of; a man quick to give umbrage, quicker to resent
a fancied slight--a remorseless eye that fixes you with the passionless
menace of a hawk's eye, dreamily marking you for a victim. He is cruel
to his servants, cruel to his animals, terrible in his hatred of these
Boston people. Nobody knows why they ridiculed him; but they did. That
adds to the fuel which feeds the flame in him--that and the brooding on
his own grievances--"

She moved nearer to me and laid her hand on my sleeve. "Cousin, the man
is mad; I ask you to remember that in a moment of just provocation. It
would grieve me if he were your enemy--I should not sleep for thinking."

"Dorothy," I said, smiling, "I use some weapons better than I do the
war-axe. Are you afraid for me?"

She looked at me seriously. "In that little world which I know there is
much that terrifies men, yet I can say, without boasting, there is not,
in my world, one living creature or one witch or spirit that I
dread--no, not even Catrine Montour!"

"And who is Catrine Montour?" I asked, amused at her earnestness.

Ere she could reply, Ruyven called from the stairs that Cato had my tub
of water all prepared, and she walked away, nodding a brief adieu,
pausing at the door to give me one sweet, swift smile of
friendly interest.



IV

SIR LUPUS

I had bathed and slept, and waked once more to the deep, resonant notes
of a conch-shell blowing; and I still lay abed, blinking at the sunset
through the soiled panes of my western window, when Cato scraped at the
door to enter, bearing my sea-boxes one by one.

Reaching behind me, I drew the keys from under my pillow and tossed them
to the solemn black, lying still once more to watch him unlock my boxes
and lay out my clothes and linen to the air.

"Company to sup, suh; gemmen from de No'th an' Guy Pahk, suh," he
hinted, rolling his eyes at me and holding up my best wristbands, made
of my mother's lace.

"I shall dress soberly, Cato," said I, yawning. "Give me a narrow
queue-ribbon, too."

The old man mumbled and muttered, fussing about among the boxes until he
found a full suit of silver-gray, silken stockings, and hound's-tongue
shoes to match.

"Dishyere clothes sho' is sober," he reflected aloud. "One li'l gole
vine a-crawlin' on de cuffs, nuvver li'l gole vine a-creepin' up de
wes'coat, gole buckles on de houn'-tongue--Whar de hat? Hat done loose
hisse'f! Here de hat! Gole lace on de hat--Cap'in Ormond sho' is quality
gemm'n. Ef he ain't, how come dishyere gole lace on de hat?"

"Come, Cato," I remonstrated, "am I dressing for a ball at Augustine,
that you stand there pulling my finery about to choose and pick? I tell
you to give me a sober suit!" I snatched a flowered robe from the bed's
foot-board, pulled it about me, and stepped to the floor.

Cato brought a chair and bowl, and, when I had washed once more I seated
myself while the old man shook out my hair, dusted it to its natural
brown, then fell to combing and brushing. My hair, with its obstinate
inclination to curl, needed neither iron nor pomade; so, silvering it
with my best French powder, he tied the short queue with a black ribbon
and dusted my shoulders, critically considering me the while.

"A plain shirt," I said, briefly.

He brought a frilled one.

"I want a plain shirt," I insisted.

"Dishyere sho't am des de plaines' an' de--"

"You villain, don't I know what I want?"

"No, suh!"

And, upon my honor, I could not get that black mule to find me the shirt
that I wished to wear. More than that, he utterly refused to permit me
to dress in a certain suit of mouse-color without lace, but actually
bundled me into the silver-gray, talking volubly all the while; and I,
half laughing and wholly vexed, almost minded to go burrowing myself
among my boxes and risk peppering silk and velvet with hair-powder.

But he dressed me as it suited him, patting my silk shoes into shape,
smoothing coat-skirt and flowered vest-flap, shaking out the lace on
stock and wrist with all the delicacy and cunning of a lady's-maid.

"Idiot!" said I, "am I tricked out to please you?"

"You sho' is, Cap'in Ormond, suh," he said, the first faint approach to
a grin that I had seen wrinkling his aged face. And with that he hung
my small-sword, whisked the powder from my shoulders with a bit of
cambric, chose a laced handkerchief for me, and, ere I could
remonstrate, passed a tiny jewelled pin into my powdered hair, where it
sparkled like a frost crystal.

"I'm no macaroni!" I said, angrily; "take it away!"

"Cap'in Ormond, suh, you sho' is de fines' young gemm'n in de province,
suh," he pleaded. "Dess regahd yo'se'f, suh, in dishyere lookum-glass.
What I done tell you? Look foh yo'se'f, suh! Cap'in Butler gwine see how
de quality gemm'n fixes up! Suh John Johnsing he gwine see! Dat ole
Kunnel Butler he gwine see, too! Heah yo' is, suh, dess a-bloomin' lak
de pink-an'-silver ghos' flower wif de gole heart."

"Cato," I asked, curiously, "why do you take pride in tricking out a
stranger to dazzle your own people?"

The old man stood silent a moment, then looked up with the mild eyes of
an aged hound long privileged in honorable retirement.

"Is you sho' a Ormond, suh?"

"Yes, Cato."

"Might you come f'om de Spanish grants, suh, long de Halifax?"

"Yes, yes; but we are English now. How did you know I came from the
Halifax?"

"I knowed it, suh; I knowed h'it muss be dat-away!"

"How do you know it, Cato?"

"I spec' you favor yo' pap, suh, de ole Kunnel--"

"My father!"

"Mah ole marster, suh; I was raised 'long Matanzas, suh. Spanish man
done cotch me on de Tomoka an' ship me to Quebec. Ole Suh William
Johnsing, he done buy me; Suh John, he done sell me; Mars Varick, he buy
me; an' hyah ah is, suh--heart dess daid foh de Halifax san's."

He bent his withered head and laid his face on my hands, but no tear
fell.

After a moment he straightened, snuffled, and smiled, opening his lips
with a dry click.

"H'it's dat-a-way, suh. Ole Cato dess 'bleged to fix up de young
marster. Pride o' fambly, suh. What might you be desirin' now, Mars'
Ormond? One li'l drap o' musk on yoh hanker? Lawd save us, but you sho'
is gallus dishyere day! Spec' Miss Dorry gwine blink de vi'lets in her
eyes. Yaas, suh. Miss Dorry am de only one, suh; de onliest Ormond in
dishyere fambly. Seem mos' lak she done throw back to our folk, suh.
Miss Dorry ain' no Varick; Miss Dorry all Ormond, suh, dess lak you an'
me! Yaas, suh, h'its dat-a-way; h'it sho' is, Mars' Ormond."

I drew a deep, quivering breath. Home seemed so far, and the old slave
would never live to see it. I felt as though this steel-cold North held
me, too, like a trap--never to unclose.

"Cato," I said, abruptly, "let us go home."

He understood; a gleam of purest joy flickered in his eyes, then died
out, quenched in swelling tears.

He wept awhile, standing there in the centre of the room, smearing the
tears away with the flapping sleeves of his tarnished livery, while,
like a committed panther, I paced the walls, to and fro, to and fro,
heart aching for escape.

The light in the west deepened above the forests; a long, glowing crack
opened between two thunderous clouds, like a hint of hidden hell, firing
the whole sky. And in the blaze the crows winged, two and two, like
witches flying home to the infernal pit, now all ablaze and kindling
coal on coal along the dark sky's sombre brink.

Then the red bars faded on my wall to pink, to ashes; a fleck of rosy
cloud in mid-zenith glimmered and went out, and the round edges of the
world were curtained with the night.

Behind me, Cato struck flint and lighted two tall candles; outside the
lawn, near the stockade, a stable-lad set a conch-horn to his lips,
blowing a deep, melodious cattle-call, and far away I heard them
coming--tin, ton! tin, ton! tinkle!--through the woods, slowly, slowly,
till in the freshening dusk I smelled their milk and heard them lowing
at the unseen pasture-bars.

I turned sharply; the candle-light dazzled me. As I passed Cato, the old
man bowed till his coat-cuffs hung covering his dusky, wrinkled fingers.

"When we go, we go together, Cato," I said, huskily, and so passed on
through the brightly lighted hallway and down the stairs.

Candle-light glimmered on the dark pictures, the rusted circles of arms,
the stags' heads with their dusty eyes. A servant in yellow livery,
lounging by the door, rose from the settle as I appeared and threw open
the door on the left, announcing, "Cap'm Ormond!" in a slovenly fashion
which merited a rebuke from somebody.

The room into which the yokel ushered me appeared to be a library, low
of ceiling, misty with sour pipe smoke, which curled and floated level,
wavering as the door closed behind me.

Through the fog, which nigh choked me with its staleness, I perceived a
bulky gentleman seated at ease, sucking a long clay pipe, his bulging
legs cocked up on a card-table, his little, inflamed eyes twinkling red
in the candle-light.

[Illustration: "YOU'RE MY COUSIN, GEORGE ORMOND, OR I'M THE FATTEST LIAR
SOUTH OF MONTREAL!".]

"Captain Ormond?" he cried. "Captain be damned; you're my cousin, George
Ormond, or I'm the fattest liar south of Montreal! Who the devil put 'em
up to captaining you--eh? Was it that minx Dorothy? Dammy, I took it
that the old Colonel had come to plague me from his grave--your father,
sir! And a cursed fine fellow, if he was second cousin to a Varick,
which he could not help, not he!--though I've heard him damn his luck to
my very face, sir! Yes, sir, under my very nose!"

He fell into a fit of fat coughing, and seized a glass of
spirits-and-water which stood on the table near his feet. The draught
allayed his spasm; he wiped his broad, purple face, chuckled, tossed off
the last of the liquor with a smack, and held out a mottled, fat hand,
bare of wrist-lace. "Here's my heart with it, George!" he cried. "I'd
stand up to greet you, but it takes ten minutes for me to find these
feet o' mine, so I'll not keep you waiting. There's a chair; fill it
with that pretty body of yours; cock up your feet--here's a pipe--here's
snuff--here's the best rum north o' Norfolk, which that ass Dunmore laid
in ashes to spite those who kicked him out!"

He squeezed my hand affectionately. "Pretty bird! Dammy, but you'll
break a heart or two, you rogue! Oh, you are your father all over again;
it's that way with you Ormonds--all alike, and handsome as that young
devil Lucifer; too proud to be proud o' your dukes and admirals, and a
thousand years of waiting on your King. As lads together your father
used to take me by the ear and cuff me, crying, 'Beast! beast! You eat
and drink too much! An Ormond's heart lies not in his belly!' And I
kicked back, fighting stoutly for the crust he dragged me from. Dammy,
why not? There's more Dutch Varick than Irish Ormond in me. Remember
that, George, and we shall get on famously together, you and I. Forget
it, and we quarrel. Hey! fill that tall Italian glass for a toast. I
give you the family, George. May they keep tight hold on what is theirs
through all this cursed war-folly. Here's to the patroons, God
bless 'em!"

Forced by courtesy to drink ere I had yet tasted meat, I did my part
with the best grace I could muster, turning the beautiful glass
downward, with a bow to my host.

"The same trick o' grace in neck and wrist," he muttered, thickly,
wiping his lips. "All Ormond, all Ormond, George, like that vixen o'
mine, Dorothy. Hey! It's not too often that good blood throws back; the
mongrel shows oftenest; but that big chit of a lass is no Varick; she's
Ormond to the bones of her. Ruyven's a red-head; there's red in the rest
o' them, and the slow Dutch blood. But Dorothy's eyes are like those
wild iris-blooms that purple all our meadows, and she has the Ormond
hair--that thick, dull gold, which that French Ormond, of King Stephen's
time, was dowered with by his Saxon mother, Helen. Eh? You see, I read
it in that book your father left us. If I'm no Ormond, I like to find
out why, and I love to dispute the Ormond claim which Walter Butler
makes--he with his dark face and hair, and those dusky, golden eyes of
his, which turn so yellow when I plague him--the mad wild-cat that
he is."

Another fit of choking closed his throat, and again he soaked it open
with his chilled toddy, rattling the stick to stir it well ere he
drained it at a single, gobbling gulp.

A faint disgust took hold on me, to sit there smothering in the fumes of
pipe and liquor, while my gross kinsman guzzled and gabbled and
guzzled again.

"George," he gasped, mopping his crimsoned face, "I'll tell you now that
we Varicks and you Ormonds must stand out for neutrality in this war.
The Butlers mean mischief; they're mad to go to fighting, and that means
our common ruin. They'll be here to-night, damn them."

"Sir Lupus," I ventured, "we are all kinsmen, the Butlers, the Varicks,
and the Ormonds. We are to gather here for self-protection during this
rebellion. I am sure that in the presence of this common danger there
can arise no family dissension."

"Yes, there can!" he fairly yelled. "Here am I risking life and property
to persuade these Butlers that their interest lies in strictest
neutrality. If Schuyler at Albany knew they visited me, his dragoons
would gallop into Varick Manor and hang me to my barn door! Here am I, I
say, doing my best to keep 'em quiet, and there's Sir John Johnson and
all that bragging crew from Guy Park combating me--nay, would you
believe their impudence?--striving to win me to arm my tenantry for this
King of England, who has done nothing for me, save to make a knight of
me to curry favor with the Dutch patroons in New York province--or
state, as they call it now! And now I have you to count on for support,
and we'll whistle another jig for them to-night, I'll warrant!"

He seized his unfilled glass, looked into it, and pushed it from him
peevishly.

"Dammy," he said, "I'll not budge for them! I have thousands of acres,
hundreds of tenants, farms, sugar-bushes, manufactories for pearl-ash,
grist-mills, saw-mills, and I'm damned if I draw sword either way! Am I
a madman, to risk all this? Am I a common fool, to chance anything now?
Do they think me in my dotage? Indeed, sir, if I drew blade, if I as
much as raised a finger, both sides would come swarming all over
us--rebels a-looting and a-shooting, Indians whooping off my cattle,
firing my barns, scalping my tenants--rebels at heart every one, and I'd
not care tuppence who scalped 'em but that they pay me rent!"

He clinched his fat fists and beat the air angrily.

"I'm lord of this manor!" he bawled. "I'm Patroon Varick, and I'll do as
I please!"

Amazed and mortified at his gross frankness, I sat silent, not knowing
what to say. Interest alone swayed him; the right and wrong of this
quarrel were nothing to him; he did not even take the trouble to pay a
hypocrite's tribute to principle ere he turned his back on it;
selfishness alone ruled, and he boasted of it, waving his short, fat
arms in anger, or struggling to extend them heavenward, in protest
against these people who dared urge him to declare himself and stand or
fall with the cause he might embrace.

A faint disgust stirred my pulse. We Ormonds had as much to lose as he,
but yelled it not to the skies, nor clamored of gain and loss in such
unseemly fashion, ignoring higher motive.

"Sir Lupus," I said, "if we can remain neutral with honor, that surely
is wisest. But can we?"

"Remain neutral! Of course we can!" he shouted.

"Honorably?"

"Eh? Where's honor in this mob-rule that breaks out in Boston to spot
the whole land with a scurvy irruption! Honor? Where is it in this vile
distemper which sets old neighbors here a-itching to cut each other's
throats? One says, 'You're a Tory! Take that!' and slips a knife into
him. T'other says, 'You're a rebel!' Bang!--and blows his head off!
Honor? Bah!"

He removed his wig to wipe his damp and shiny pate, then set the wig on
askew and glared at me out of his small, ruddy eyes.

"I'm for peace," he said, "and I care not who knows it. Then, whether
Tory or rebel win the day, here am I, holding to my own with both hands
and caring nothing which rag flies overhead, so that it brings peace and
plenty to honest folk. And, mark me, then we shall live to see these
plumed and gold-laced glory-mongers slinking round to beg their bread at
our back doors. Dammy, let 'em bellow now! Let 'em shout for war! I'll
keep my mills busy and my agent walking the old rent-beat. If they can
fill their bellies with a mess of glory I'll not grudge them what they
can snatch; but I'll fill mine with food less spiced, and we'll see
which of us thrives best--these sons of Mars or the old patroon who
stays at home and dips his nose into nothing worse than old Madeira!"

He gave me a cunning look, pushed his wig partly straight, and lay back,
puffing quietly at his pipe.

I hesitated, choosing my words ere I spoke; and at first he listened
contentedly, nodding approval, and pushing fresh tobacco into his clay
with a fat forefinger.

I pointed out that it was my desire to save my lands from ravage, ruin,
and ultimate confiscation by the victors; that for this reason he had
summoned me, and I had come to confer with him and with other branches
of our family, seeking how best this might be done.

I reminded him that, from his letters to me, I had acquired a fair
knowledge of the estates endangered; that I understood that Sir John
Johnson owned enormous tracts in Tryon County which his great father,
Sir William, had left him when he died; that Colonel Claus, Guy Johnson,
the Butlers, father and son, and the Varicks, all held estates of
greatest value; and that these estates were menaced, now by Tory, now by
rebel, and the lords of these broad manors were alternately solicited
and threatened by the warring factions now so bloodily embroiled.

"We Ormonds can comprehend your dismay, your distress, your doubts," I
said. "Our indigo grows almost within gunshot of the British outpost at
New Smyrna; our oranges, our lemons, our cane, our cotton, must wither
at a blast from the cannon of Saint Augustine. The rebels in Georgia
threaten us, the Tories at Pensacola warn us, the Seminoles are
gathering, the Minorcans are arming, the blacks in the Carolinas watch
us, and the British regiments at Augustine are all itching to ravage and
plunder and drive us into the sea if we declare not for the King who
pays them."

Sir Lupus nodded, winked, and fell to slicing tobacco with a small, gold
knife.

"We're all Quakers in these days--eh, George? We can't fight--no, we
really can't! It's wrong, George,--oh, very wrong." And he fell
a-chuckling, so that his paunch shook like a jelly.

"I think you do not understand me," I said.

He looked up quickly.

"We Ormonds are only waiting to draw sword."

"Draw sword!" he cried. "What d'ye mean?"

"I mean that, once convinced our honor demands it, we cannot choose but
draw."

"Don't be an ass!" he shouted. "Have I not told you that there's no
honor in this bloody squabble? Lord save the lad, he's mad as
Walter Butler!"

"Sir Lupus," I said, angrily, "is a man an ass to defend his own land?"

"He is when it's not necessary! Lie snug; nobody is going to harm you.
Lie snug, with both arms around your own land."

"I meant my own native land, not the miserable acres my slaves plant to
feed and clothe me."

He glared, twisting his long pipe till the stem broke short.

"Well, which land do you mean to defend, England or these colonies?" he
asked, staring.

"That is what I desire to learn, sir," I said, respectfully. "That is
why I came North. With us in Florida, all is, so far, faction and
jealousy, selfish intrigue and prejudiced dispute. The truth, the vital
truth, is obscured; the right is hidden in a petty storm where local
tyrants fill the air with dust, striving each to blind the other."

I leaned forward earnestly. "There must be right and wrong in this
dispute; Truth stands naked somewhere in the world. It is for us to find
her. Why, mark me, Sir Lupus, men cannot sit and blink at villany, nor
look with indifference on a struggle to the death. One side is right,
t'other wrong. And we must learn how matters stand."

"And what will it advance us to learn how matters stand?" he said, still
staring, as though I were some persistent fool vexing him with
unleavened babble. "Suppose these rebels are right--and, dammy, but I
think they are--and suppose our King's troops are roundly trouncing
them--and I think they are, too--do you mean to say you'd draw sword and
go a-prowling, seeking for some obliging enemy to knock you in the head
or hang you for a rebel to your neighbor's apple-tree?"

"Something of that sort," I said, good-humoredly.

"Oh, Don Quixote once more, eh?" he sneered, too mad to raise his voice
to the more convenient bellow which seemed to soothe him as much as it
distressed his listener. "Well, you've got a fool's mate in Sir George
Covert, the insufferable dandy! And all you two need is a pair o' Panzas
and a brace of windmills. Bah!" He grew angrier. "Bah, I say!" He broke
out: "Damnation, sir! Go to the devil!"

I said, calmly: "Sir Lupus, I hear your observation with patience; I
naturally receive your admonition with respect, but your bearing towards
me I resent. Pray, sir, remember that I am under your roof now, but when
I quit it I am free to call you to account."

"What! You'd fight me?"

"Scarcely, sir; but I should expect somebody to make your words good."

"Bah! Who? Ruyven? He's a lad! Dorothy is the only one to--" He broke
out into a hoarse laugh. "Oh, you Ormonds! I might have saved myself the
pains. And now you want to flesh your sword, it matters not in
whom--Tory, rebel, neutral folk, they're all one to you, so that you
fight! George, don't take offence; I naturally swear at those I differ
with. I may love 'em and yet curse 'em like a sailor! Know me better,
George! Bear with me; let me swear at you, lad! It's all I can do."

He spread out his fat hands imploringly, recrossing his enormous legs on
the card-table. "I can't fight, George; I would gladly, but I'm too fat.
Don't grudge me a few kindly oaths now and then. It's all I can do."

I was seized with a fit of laughter, utterly uncontrollable. Sir Lupus
observed me peevishly, twiddling his broken pipe, and I saw he longed to
launch it at my head, which made me laugh till his large, round, red
face grew grayer and foggier through the mirth-mist in my eyes.

"Am I so droll?" he snapped.

"Oh yes, yes, Sir Lupus," I cried, weakly. "Don't grudge me this laugh.
It is all I can do."

A grim smile came over his broad face.

"Touched!" he said. "I've a fine pair on my hands now--you and Sir
George Covert--to plague me and prick me with your wit, like mosquitoes
round a drowsy man. A fine family conference we shall have, with Sir
John Johnson and the Butlers shooting one way, you and Sir George Covert
firing t'other, and me betwixt you, singing psalms and getting all your
arrows in me, fore and aft."

"Who is Sir George Covert?" I asked.

"One o' the Calverts, Lord Baltimore's kin, a sort of cousin of the
Ormond-Butlers, a supercilious dandy, a languid macaroni; plagues me,
damn his impudence, but I can't hate him--no! Hate him? Faith, I owe him
more than any man on earth ... and love him for it--which is strange!"

"Has he an estate in jeopardy?" I inquired.

"Yes. He has a mansion in Albany, too, which he leases. He bought a mile
on the great Vlaic and lives there all alone, shooting, fishing, playing
the guitar o' moony nights, which they say sets the wild-cats wilder.
Mark me, George, a petty mile square and a shooting shanty, and this
languid ass says he means to fight for it. Lord help the man! I told him
I'd buy him out to save him from embroiling us all, and what d' ye
think? He stared at me through his lorgnons as though I had been some
queer, new bird, and, says he, 'Lud!' says he,' there's a world o'
harmless sport in you yet, Sir Lupus, but you don't spell your title
right,' says he. 'Change the a to an o and add an ell for good measure,
and there you have it,' says he, a-drawling. With which he minced off,
dusting his nose with his lace handkerchief, and I'm damned if I see the
joke yet in spelling patroon with an o for the a and an ell for
good measure!"

He paused, out of breath, to pour himself some spirits. "Joke?" he
muttered. "Where the devil is it? I see no wit in that." And he picked
up a fresh pipe from the rack on the table and moistened the clay with
his fat tongue.

We sat in silence for a while. That this Sir George Covert should call
the patroon a poltroon hurt me, for he was kin to us both; yet it seemed
that there might be truth in the insolent fling, for selfishness and
poltroonery are too often linked.

I raised my eyes and looked almost furtively at my cousin Varick. He had
no neck; the spot where his bullet head joined his body was marked only
by a narrow and soiled stock. His eyes alone relieved the monotony of a
stolid countenance; all else was fat.

Sunk in my own reflections, lying back in my arm-chair, I watched
dreamily the smoke pouring from the patroon's pipe, floating away, to
hang wavering across the room, now lifting, now curling downward, as
though drawn by a hidden current towards the unwaxed oaken floor.

No, there was no Ormond in him; he was all Varick, all Dutch, all
patroon.

I had never seen any man like him save once, when a red-faced Albany
merchant came a-waddling to the sea-islands looking for cotton and
indigo, and we all despised him for the eagerness with which he trimmed
his shillings at the Augustine taverns. Thrift is a word abused, and
serves too often as a mask for avarice.

As I sat there fashioning wise saws and proverbs in my busy mind, the
hall door opened and the first guest was announced--Sir George Covert.

And in he came, a well-built, lazy gentleman of forty, swinging
gracefully on a pair o' legs no man need take shame in; ruffles on cuff
and stock, hair perfumed, powdered, and rolled twice in French puffs,
and on his hand a brilliant that sparkled purest fire. Under one arm he
bore his gold-edged hat, and as he strolled forward, peering coolly
about him through his quizzing glass, I thought I had never seen such
graceful assurance, nor such insolently handsome eyes, marred by the
faint shadows of dissipation.

Sir Lupus nodded a welcome and blew a great cloud of smoke into the air.

"Ah," observed Sir George, languidly, "Vesuvius in irruption?"

"How de do," said Sir Lupus, suspiciously.

"The mountain welcomes Mohammed," commented Sir George. "Mohammed
greets the mountain! How de do, Sir Lupus! Ah!" He turned gracefully
towards me, bowing. "Pray present me, Sir Lupus."

"My cousin, George Ormond," said Sir Lupus. "George first, George
second," he added, with a sneer.

"No relation to George III., I trust, sir?" inquired Sir George,
anxiously, offering his cool, well-kept hand.

"No," said I, laughing at his serious countenance and returning his
clasp firmly.

"That's well, that's well," murmured Sir George, apparently vastly
relieved, and invited me to take snuff with him.

We had scarcely exchanged a civil word or two ere the servant announced
Captain Walter Butler, and I turned curiously, to see a dark, graceful
young man enter and stand for a moment staring haughtily straight at me.
He wore a very elegant black-and-orange uniform, without gorget; a black
military cloak hung from his shoulders, caught up in his sword-knot.

With a quick movement he raised his hand and removed his officer's hat,
and I saw on his gauntlets of fine doeskin the Ormond arms, heavily
embroidered. Instantly the affectation displeased me.

"Come to the mountain, brother prophet," said Sir George, waving his
hand towards the seated patroon. He came, lightly as a panther, his
dark, well-cut features softening a trifle; and I thought him handsome
in his uniform, wearing his own dark hair unpowdered, tied in a short
queue; but when he turned full face to greet Sir George Covert, I was
astonished to see the cruelty in his almost perfect features, which were
smooth as a woman's, and lighted by a pair of clear, dark-golden eyes.

Ah, those wonderful eyes of Walter Butler--ever-changing eyes, now
almost black, glimmering with ardent fire, now veiled and amber, now
suddenly a shallow yellow, round, staring, blank as the eyes of a caged
eagle; and, still again, piercing, glittering, narrowing to a slit.
Terrible mad eyes, that I have never forgotten--never, never can forget.

As Sir Lupus named me, Walter Butler dropped Sir George's hand and
grasped mine, too eagerly to please me.

"Ormond and Ormond-Butler need no friends to recommend them each to the
other," he said. And straightway fell a-talking of the greatness of the
Arrans and the Ormonds, and of that duke who, attainted, fled to France
to save his neck.

I strove to be civil, yet he embarrassed me before the others, babbling
of petty matters interesting only to those whose taste invites them to
go burrowing in parish records and ill-smelling volumes written by some
toad-eater to his patron.

For me, I am an Ormond, and I know that it would be shameful if I turned
rascal and besmirched my name. As to the rest--the dukes, the glory, the
greatness--I hold it concerns nobody but the dead, and it is a
foolishness to plague folks' ears by boasting of deeds done by those you
never knew, like a Seminole chanting ere he strikes the painted post.

Also, this Captain Walter Butler was overlarding his phrases with
"Cousin Ormond," so that I was soon cloyed, and nigh ready to damn the
relationship to his face.

Sir Lupus, who had managed to rise by this time, waddled off into the
drawing-room across the hallway, motioning us to follow; and barely in
time, too, for there came, shortly, Sir John Johnson with a company of
ladies and gentlemen, very gay in their damasks, brocades, and velvets,
which the folds of their foot-mantles, capuchins, and cardinals
revealed.

The gentlemen had come a-horseback, and all wore very elegant uniforms
under their sober cloaks, which were linked with gold chains at the
throat; the ladies, prettily powdered and patched, appeared a trifle
over-, and their necks and shoulders, innocent of buffonts,
gleamed pearl-tinted above their gay breast-knots. And they made a
sparkling bevy as they fluttered up the staircase to their cloak-room,
while Sir John entered the drawing-room, followed by the other
gentlemen, and stood in careless conversation with the patroon, while
old Cato disembarrassed him of cloak and hat.

Sir John Johnson, son of the great Sir William, as I first saw him was a
man of less than middle age, flabby, cold-eyed, heavy of foot and hand.
On his light- hair he wore no powder; the rather long queue was
tied with a green hair-ribbon; the thick, whitish folds of his double
chin rested on a buckled stock.

For the rest, he wore a green-and-gold uniform of very elegant
cut--green being the garb of his regiment, the Royal Greens, as I
learned afterwards--and his buff-topped boots and his metals were
brilliant and plainly new.

When the patroon named me to him he turned his lack-lustre eyes on me
and offered me a large, damp hand.

In turn I was made acquainted with the several officers in his
suite--Colonel John Butler, father of Captain Walter Butler, broad and
squat, a withered prophecy of what the son might one day be; Colonel
Daniel Claus, a rather merry and battered Indian fighter; Colonel Guy
Johnson, of Guy Park, dark and taciturn; a Captain Campbell, and a
Captain McDonald of Perth.

All wore the green uniform save the Butlers; all greeted me with
particular civility and conducted like the respectable company they
appeared to be, politely engaging me in pleasant conversation, desiring
news from Florida, or complimenting me upon my courtesy, which, they
vowed, had alone induced me to travel a thousand miles for the sake of
permitting my kinsmen the pleasure of welcoming me.

One by one the gentlemen retired to exchange their spurred top-boots for
white silk stockings and silken pumps, and to arrange their hair or
stick a patch here and there, and rinse their hands in rose-water to
cleanse them of the bridle's odor.

They were still thronging the gun-room, and I stood alone in the
drawing-room with Sir George Covert, when a lady entered and courtesied
low as we bowed together.

And truly she was a beauty, with her skin of rose-ivory, her powdered
hair a-gleam with brilliants, her eyes of purest violet, a friendly
smile hovering on her fresh, scarlet mouth.

"Well, sir," she said, "do you not know me?" And to Sir George: "I vow,
he takes me for a guest in my own house!"

And then I knew my cousin Dorothy Varick.

[Illustration: "SHE SUFFERED US TO SALUTE HER HAND".]

She suffered us to salute her hand, gazing the while about her
indifferently; and, as I released her slender fingers and raised my
head, she, rounded arm still extended as though forgotten, snapped her
thumb and forefinger together in vexation with a "Plague on it! There's
that odious Sir John!"

"Is Sir John Johnson so offensive to your ladyship?" inquired Sir
George, lazily.

"Offensive! Have you not heard how the beast drank wine from my slipper!
Never mind! I cannot endure him. Sir George, you must sit by me at
table--and you, too, Cousin Ormond, or he'll come bothering." She
glanced at the open door of the gun-room, a frown on her white brow.
"Oh, they're all here, I see. Sparks will fly ere sun-up. There's
Campbell, and McDonald, too, wi' the memory of Glencoe still stewing
betwixt them; and there's Guy Johnson, with a price on his head--and
plenty to sell it for him in County Tryon, gentlemen! And there's young
Walter Butler, cursing poor Cato that he touched his spur in drawing off
his boots--if he strikes Cato I'll strike him! And where are their fine
ladies, Sir George? Still primping at the mirror? Oh, la!" She stepped
back, laughing, raising her lovely arms a little. "Look at me. Am I well
laced, with nobody to aid me save Cecile, poor child, and Benny to hold
the candles--he being young enough for the office?"

"Happy, happy Benny!" murmured Sir George, inspecting her through his
quizzing-glass from head to toe.

"If you think it a happy office you may fill it yourself in future, Sir
George," she said. "I never knew an ass who failed to bray in ecstasy at
mention of a pair o' stays."

Sir George stared, and said, "Aha! clever--very, very clever!" in so
patronizing a tone that Dorothy reddened and bit her lip in vexation.

"That is ever your way," she said, "when I parry you to your confusion.
Take your eyes from me, Sir George! Cousin Ormond, am I dressed to your
taste or not?"

She stood there in her gown of brocade, beautifully flowered in peach
color, dainty, confident, challenging me to note one fault. Nor could I,
from the gold hair-pegs in her hair to the tip of her slim, pompadour
shoes peeping from the lace of her petticoat, which she lifted a trifle
to show her silken, flowered hose.

And--"There!" she cried, "I gowned myself, and I wear no paint. I wish
you would tell them as much when they laugh at me."

Now came the ladies, rustling down the stairway, and the gentlemen,
strolling in from their toilet and stirrup-cups in the gun-room, and I
noted that all wore service-swords, and laid their pistols on the table
in the drawing-room.

"Do they fear a surprise?" I whispered to Sir George Covert.

"Oh yes; Jack Mount and the Stoners are abroad. But Sir John has a troop
of his cut-throat horsemen picketed out around us. You see, Sir John
broke his parole, and Walter Butler is attainted, and it might go hard
with some of these gentlemen if General Schuyler's dragoons caught them
here, plotting nose to nose."

"Who is this Jack Mount?" I asked, curiously, remembering my companion
of the Albany road.

"One of Cresap's riflemen," he drawled, "sent back here from Boston to
raise the country against the invasion. They say he was a highwayman
once, but we Tories"--he laughed shamelessly--"say many things in these
days which may not help us at the judgment day. Wait, there's that
little rosebud, Claire Putnam, Sir John's flame. Take her in to table;
she's a pretty little plaything. Lady Johnson, who was Polly Watts, is
in Montreal, you see." He made a languid gesture with outspread
hands, smiling.

The girl he indicated, Mistress Claire Putnam, was a fragile, willowy
creature, over-thin, perhaps, yet wonderfully attractive and pretty, and
there was much of good in her face, and a tinge of pathos, too, for all
her bright vivacity.

"If Sir John Johnson put her away when he wedded Miss Watts," said Sir
George, coolly, "I think he did it from interest and selfish
calculation, not because he ceased to love her in his bloodless, fishy
fashion. And now that Lady Johnson has fled to Canada, Sir John makes
no pretence of hiding his amours in the society which he haunts; nor
does that society take umbrage at the notorious relationship so
impudently renewed. We're a shameless lot, Mr. Ormond."

At that moment I heard Sir John Johnson, at my elbow, saying to Sir
Lupus: "Do you know what these damned rebels have had the impudence to
do? I can scarce credit it myself, but it is said that their Congress
has adopted a flag of thirteen stripes and thirteen stars on a blue
field, and I'm cursed if I don't believe they mean to hoist the filthy
rag in our very faces!"



V

A NIGHT AT THE PATROON'S

Under a flare of yellow candle-light we entered the dining-hall and
seated ourselves before a table loaded with flowers and silver, and the
most beautiful Flemish glass that I have ever seen; though they say that
Sir William Johnson's was finer.

The square windows of the hall were closed, the dusty curtains closely
drawn; the air, though fresh, was heavily saturated with perfume.
Between each window, and higher up, small, square loop-holes pierced the
solid walls. The wooden flap-hoods of these were open; through them
poured the fresh night air, stirring the clustered flowers and the
jewelled aigrets in the ladies' hair.

The spectacle was pretty, even beautiful; at every lady's cover lay a
gift from the patroon, a crystal bosom-glass, mounted in silver
filigree, filled with roses in scented water; and, at the sight, a gust
of hand-clapping swept around the table, like the rattle of December
winds through dry palmettos.

In a distant corner, slaves, dressed fancifully and turbaned like
Barbary blackamoors, played on fiddles and guitars, and the music was
such as I should have enjoyed, loving all melody as I do, yet could
scarcely hear it in the flutter and chatter rising around me as the
ladies placed the bosom-bottles in their stomachers and opened their
Marlborough fans to set them waving all like restless wings.

Yet, under this surface elegance and display, one could scarcely choose
but note how everywhere an amazing shiftlessness reigned in the
patroon's house. Cobwebs canopied the ceiling-beams with their silvery,
ragged banners afloat in the candle's heat; dust, like a velvet mantle,
lay over the Dutch plates and teapots, ranged on shelves against the
panelled wall midway 'twixt ceiling and unwaxed floor; the gaudy yellow
liveries of the black servants were soiled and tarnished and ill
fitting, and all wore slovenly rolls, tied to imitate scratch-wigs, the
effect of which was amazing. The passion for cleanliness in the Dutch
lies not in their men folk; a Dutch mistress of this manor house had
died o' shame long since--or died o' scrubbing.

I felt mean and ungracious to sit there spying at my host's table, and
strove to forget it, yet was forced to wipe furtively spoon and fork
upon the napkin on my knees ere I durst acquaint them with my mouth; and
so did others, as I saw; but they did it openly and without pretence of
concealment, and nobody took offence.

Sir Lupus cared nothing for precedence at table, and said so when he
seated us, which brought a sneer to Sir John Johnson's mouth and a scowl
to Walter Butler's brow; but this provincial boorishness appeared to be
forgotten ere the decanters had slopped the cloth twice, and fair faces
flushed, and voices grew gayer, and the rattle of silver assaulting
china and the mellow ring of glasses swelled into a steady, melodious
din which stirred the blood to my cheeks.

We Ormonds love gayety--I choose the mildest phrase I know. Yet, take us
at our worst, Irish that we are, and if there be a taint of license to
our revels, and if we drink the devil's toast to the devil's own
undoing, the vital spring of our people remains unpolluted, the nation's
strength and purity unsoiled, guarded forever by the chastity of
our women.

Savoring my claret, I glanced askance at my neighbors; on my left sat my
cousin Dorothy Varick, frankly absorbed in a roasted pigeon, yet
wielding knife and fork with much grace and address; on my right
Magdalen Brant, step-cousin to Sir John, a lovely, soft-voiced girl,
with velvety eyes and the faintest dusky tint, which showed the Indian
blood through the carmine in her fresh, curved cheeks.

I started to speak to her, but there came a call from the end of the
table, and we raised our glasses to Sir Lupus, for which civility he
expressed his thanks and gave us the ladies, which we drank standing,
and reversed our glasses with a cheer.

Then Walter Butler gave us "The Ormonds and the Earls of Arran," an
amazing vanity, which shamed me so that I sat biting my lip, furious to
see Sir John wink at Colonel Claus, and itching to fling my glass at the
head of this young fool whose brain seemed cracked with brooding on
his pedigree.

Meat was served ere I was called on, but later, a delicious Burgundy
being decanted, all called me with a persistent clamor, so that I was
obliged to ask permission of Sir Lupus, then rise, still tingling with
the memory of the silly toast offered by Walter Butler.

"I give you," I said, "a republic where self-respect balances the
coronet, where there is no monarch, no high-priest, but only a clean
altar, served by the parliament of a united people. Gentlemen, raise
your glasses to the colonies of America and their ancient liberties!"

And, amazed at what I had said, and knowing that I had not meant to say
it, I lifted my glass and drained it.

Astonishment altered every face. Walter Butler mechanically raised his
glass, then set it down, then raised it once more, gazing blankly at me;
and I saw others hesitate, as though striving to recollect the exact
terms of my toast. But, after a second's hesitation, all drank sitting.
Then each looked inquiringly at me, at neighbors, puzzled, yet already
partly reassured.

"Gad!" said Colonel Claus, bluntly, "I thought at first that Burgundy
smacked somewhat of Boston tea."

"The Burgundy's sound enough," said Colonel John Butler, grimly.

"So is the toast," bawled Sir Lupus. "It's a pacific toast, a soothing
sentiment, neither one thing not t'other. Dammy, it's a toast no Quaker
need refuse."

"Sir Lupus, your permission!" broke out Captain Campbell. "Gentlemen, it
is strange that not one of his Majesty's officers has proposed the
King!" He looked straight at me and said, without turning his head: "All
loyal at this table will fill. Ladies, gentlemen, I give you his Majesty
the King!"

The toast was finished amid cheers. I drained my glass and turned it
down with a bow to Captain Campbell, who bowed to me as though
greatly relieved.

The fiddles, bassoons, and guitars were playing and the slaves singing
when the noise of the cheering died away; and I heard Dorothy beside me
humming the air and tapping the floor with her silken shoe, while she
moistened macaroons in a glass of Madeira and nibbled them with serene
satisfaction.

"You appear to be happy," I whispered.

"Perfectly. I adore sweets. Will you try a dish of cinnamon cake? Sop it
in Burgundy; they harmonize to a most heavenly taste.... Look at
Magdalen Brant, is she not sweet? Her cousin is Molly Brant, old Sir
William's sweetheart, fled to Canada.... She follows this week with
Betty Austin, that black-eyed little mischief-maker on Sir John's right,
who owes her diamonds to Guy Johnson. La! What a gossip I grow! But
it's county talk, and all know it, and nobody cares save the Albany
blue-noses and the Van Cortlandts, who fall backward with standing too
straight--"

"Dorothy," I said, sharply, "a blunted innocence is better than none,
but it's a pity you know so much!"

"How can I help it?" she asked, calmly, dipping another macaroon into
her glass.

"It's a pity, all the same," I said.

"Dew on a duck's back, my friend," she observed, serenely. "Cousin, if I
were fashioned for evil I had been tainted long since."

She sat up straight and swept the table with a heavy-lidded, insolent
glance, eyebrows raised. The cold purity of her profile, the undimmed
innocence, the childish beauty of the curved cheek, touched me to the
quick. Ah! the white flower to nourish here amid unconcealed corruption,
with petals stainless, with bloom undimmed, with all its exquisite
fragrance still fresh and wholesome in an air heavy with wine and the
odor of dying roses.

I looked around me. Guy Johnson, red in the face, was bending too
closely beside his neighbor, Betty Austin. Colonel Claus talked loudly
across the table to Captain McDonald, and swore fashionable oaths which
the gaunt captain echoed obsequiously. Claire Putnam coquetted with her
paddle-stick fan, defending her roses from Sir George Covert, while Sir
John Johnson stared at them in cold disapproval; and I saw Magdalen
Brant, chin propped on her clasped hands, close her eyes and breathe
deeply while the wine burned her face, setting torches aflame in either
cheek. Later, when I spoke to her, she laughed pitifully, saying that
her ears hummed like bee-hives. Then she said that she meant to go, but
made no movement; and presently her dark eyes closed again, and I saw
the fever pulse beating in her neck.

Some one had overturned a silver basin full of flowers, and a servant,
sopping up the water, had brushed Walter Butler so that he flew into a
passion and flung a glass at the terrified black, which set Sir Lupus
laughing till he choked, but which enraged me that he should so conduct
in the presence of his host's daughter.

Yet if Sir Lupus could not only overlook it, but laugh at it, I, certes,
had no right to rebuke what to me seemed a gross insult.

Toasts flew fast now, and there was a punch in a silver bowl as large as
a bushel--and spirits, too, which was strange, seeing that the ladies
remained at table.

Then Captain Campbell would have all to drink the Royal Greens, standing
on chairs, one foot on the table, which appeared to be his regiment's
mess custom, and we did so, the ladies laughing and protesting, but
finally planting their dainty shoes on the edge of the table; and
Magdalen Brant nigh fell off her chair--for lack of balance, as Sir
George Covert protested, one foot alone being too small to sustain her.

"That Cinderella compliment at our expense!" cried Betty Austin, but Sir
Lupus cried: "Silence all, and keep one foot on the table!" And a little
black slave lad, scarce more than a babe, appeared, dressed in a
lynx-skin, bearing a basket of pretty boxes woven out of scented grass
and embroidered with silk flowers.

At every corner he laid a box, all exclaiming and wondering what the
surprise might be, until the little black, arching his back, fetched a
yowl like a lynx and ran out on all fours.

"The gentlemen will open the boxes! Ladies, keep one foot on the table!"
bawled Sir Lupus. We bent to open the boxes; Magdalen Brant and Dorothy
Varick, each resting a hand on my shoulder to steady them, peeped
curiously down to see. And, "Oh!" cried everybody, as the lifted
box-lids discovered snow-white pigeons sitting on great gilt eggs.

The white pigeons fluttered out, some to the table, where they craned
their necks and ruffled their snowy plumes; others flapped up to the
loop-holes, where they sat and watched us.

"Break the eggs!" cried the patroon.

I broke mine; inside was a pair of shoe-roses, each set with a pearl and
clasped with a gold pin.

Betty Austin clapped her hands in delight; Dorothy bent double, tore off
the silken roses from each shoe in turn, and I pinned on the new
jewelled roses amid a gale of laughter.

"A health to the patroon!" cried Sir George Covert, and we gave it with
a will, glasses down. Then all settled to our seats once more to hear
Sir George sing a song.

A slave passed him a guitar; he touched the strings and sang with good
taste a song in questionable taste:

     "Jeanneton prend sa faucille."

A delicate melody and neatly done; yet the verse--

     "Le deuxieme plus habile
     L'embrassant sous le menton"--

made me redden, and the envoi nigh burned me alive
with blushes, yet was rapturously applauded, and the
patroon fell a-choking with his gross laughter.

Then Walter Butler would sing, and, I confess, did
it well, though the song was sad and the words too
melancholy to please.

"I know a rebel song," cried Colonel Claus. "Here,
give me that fiddle and I'll fiddle it, dammy if I don't--ay,
and sing it, too!"

In a shower of gibes and laughter the fiddle was
fetched, and the Indian fighter seized the bow and drew
a most distressful strain, singing in a whining voice:

     "Come hearken to a bloody tale,
       Of how the soldiery
     Did murder men in Boston,
       As you full soon shall see.
     It came to pass on March the fifth
       Of seventeen-seventy,
     A regiment, the twenty-ninth.
       Provoked a sad affray!"

"Chorus!" shouted Captain Campbell, beating time:

     "Fol-de-rol-de-rol-de-ray--
     Provoked a sad affray!"

"That's not in the song!" protested Colonel Claus, but everybody sang it
in whining tones.

"Continue!" cried Captain Campbell, amid a burst of laughter. And Claus
gravely drew his fiddle-bow across the strings and sang:

     "In King Street, by the Butcher's Hall
       The soldiers on us fell,
     Likewise before their barracks
       (It is the truth I tell).
     And such a dreadful carnage
       In Boston ne'er was known;
     They killed Samuel Maverick--
       He gave a piteous groan."

And, "Fol-de-rol!" roared Captain Campbell, "He gave a piteous groan!"

"John Clark he was wounded,
  On him they did fire;
James Caldwell and Crispus Attucks
  Lay bleeding in the mire;
Their regiment, the twenty-ninth,
  Killed Monk and Sam I Gray,
While Patrick Carr lay cold in death
  And could not flee away--

"Oh, tally!" broke out Sir John; "are we to listen to such stuff all
night?"

More laughter; and Sir George Covert said that he feared Sir John
Johnson had no sense of humor.

"I have heard that before," said Sir John, turning his cold eyes on Sir
George. "But if we've got to sing at wine, in Heaven's name let us sing
something sensible."

"No, no!" bawled Claus. "This is the abode of folly to-night!" And he
sang a catch from "Pills to Purge Melancholy," as broad a verse as I
cared to hear in such company.

"Cheer up, Sir John!" cried Betty Austin; "there are other slippers to
drink from--"

Sir John stood up, exasperated, but could not face the storm of
laughter, nor could Dorothy, silent and white in her anger; and she rose
to go, but seemed to think better of it and resumed her seat, disdainful
eyes sweeping the table.

"Face the fools," I whispered. "Your confusion is their victory."

Captain McDonald, stirring the punch, filled all glasses, crying out
that we should drink to our sweethearts in bumpers.

"Drink 'em in wine," protested Captain Campbell, thickly. "Who but a
feckless McDonald wud drink his leddy in poonch?"

"I said poonch!" retorted McDonald, sternly. "If ye wish wine, drink it;
but I'm thinkin' the Argyle Campbells are better judges o' blood than
of red wine.

"Stop that clan-feud!" bawled the patroon, angrily.

But the old clan-feud blazed up, kindled from the ever-smouldering
embers of Glencoe, which the massacre of a whole clan had not
extinguished in all these years.

"And why should an Argyle Campbell judge blood?" cried Captain Campbell,
in a menacing voice.

"And why not?" retorted McDonald. "Breadalbane spilled enough to teach
ye."

"Teach who?"

"Teach you!--and the whole breed o' black Campbells from Perth to Galway
and Fonda's Bush, which ye dub Broadalbin. I had rather be a Monteith
and have the betrayal of Wallace cast in my face than be a Campbell of
Argyle wi' the memory o' Glencoe to follow me to hell."

"Silence!" roared the patroon, struggling to his feet. Sir George Covert
caught at Captain Campbell's sleeve as he rose; Sir John Johnson stood
up, livid with anger.

"Let this end now!" he said, sternly. "Do officers of the Royal Greens
conduct like yokels at a fair? Answer me, Captain Campbell! And you,
Captain McDonald! Take your seat, sir; and if I hear that cursed word
'Glencoe' 'again, the first who utters it faces a court-martial!"

Partly sobered, the Campbell glared mutely at the McDonald; the latter
also appeared to have recovered a portion of his senses and resumed his
seat in silence, glowering at the empty glasses before him.

"Now be sensible, gentlemen," said Colonel Claus, with a jovial nod to
the patroon; "let pass, let pass. This is no time to raise the fiery
cross in the hills. Gad, there's a new pibroch to march to these days--

     "Pibroch o' Hirokoue!
     Pibroch o' Hirokonue!"

he hummed, deliberately, but nobody laughed, and the grave, pale faces
of the women turned questioningly one to the other.

Enemies or allies, there was terror in the name of "Iroquois." But
Walter Butler looked up from his gloomy meditation and raised his glass
with a ghastly laugh.

"I drink to our red allies," he said, slowly drained his glass till but
a color remained in it, then dipped his finger in the dregs and drew
upon the white table-cloth a blood-red cross.

"There's your clan-sign, you Campbells, you McDonalds," he said, with a
terrifying smile which none could misinterpret.

Then Sir George Covert said: "Sir William Johnson knew best. Had he
lived, there had been no talk of the Iroquois as allies or as enemies."

I said, looking straight at Walter Butler: "Can there be any serious
talk of turning these wild beasts loose against the settlers of
Tryon County?"

"Against rebels," observed Sir John Johnson, coldly. "No loyal man need
fear our Mohawks."

A dead silence followed. Servants, clearing the round table of silver,
flowers, cloth--all, save glasses and decanters--stepped noiselessly,
and I knew the terror of the Iroquois name had sharpened their dull
ears. Then came old Cato, tricked out in flame- plush, bearing
the staff of major-domo; and the servants in their tarnished liveries
marshalled behind him and filed out, leaving us seated before a bare
table, with only our glasses and bottles to break the expanse of
polished mahogany and soiled cloth.

Captain McDonald rose, lifted the steaming kettle from the hob, and set
it on a great, blue tile, and the gentlemen mixed their spirits
thoughtfully, or lighted long, clay pipes.

The patroon, wreathed in smoke, lay back in his great chair and rattled
his toddy-stick for attention--an unnecessary noise, for all were
watching him, and even Walter Butler's gloomy gaze constantly reverted
to that gross, red face, almost buried in thick tobacco-smoke, like the
head of some intemperate and grotesquely swollen Jupiter crowned
with clouds.

The plea of the patroon for neutrality in the war now sweeping towards
the Mohawk Valley I had heard before. So, doubtless, had those present.

He waxed pathetic over the danger to his vast estate; he pointed out the
conservative attitude of the great patroons and lords of the manors of
Livingston, Cosby, Phillipse, Van Rensselaer, and Van Cortlandt.

"What about Schuyler?" I asked.

"Schuyler's a fool!" he retorted, angrily. "Any landed proprietor here
can become a rebel general in exchange for his estate! A fine bargain! A
thrifty dicker! Let Philip Schuyler enjoy his brief reign in Albany.
What's the market value of the glory he exchanged for his broad acres?
Can you appraise it, Sir John?"

Then Sir John Johnson arose, and, for the only moment in his career, he
stood upon a principle--a fallacious one, but still a principle; and for
that I respected him, and have never quite forgotten it, even through
the terrible years when he razed and burned and murdered among a people
who can never forget the red atrocities of his devastations.

Glancing slowly around the table, with his pale, cold eyes contracting
in the candle's glare, he spoke in a voice absolutely passionless, yet
which carried the conviction to all that what he uttered was
hopelessly final:

"Sir Lupus complains that he hazards all, should he cast his fortunes
with his King. Yet I have done that thing. I am to-day a man with a
price set on my head by these rebels of my own country. My lands, if not
already confiscated by rebel commissioners, are occupied by rebels; my
manor-houses, my forts, my mills, my tenants' farms are held by the
rebels and my revenues denied me. I was confined on parole within the
limits of Johnson Hall. They say I broke my parole, but they lie. It was
only when I had certain news that the Boston rebels were coming to seize
my person and violate a sacred convention that I retired to Canada."

He paused. The explanation was not enough to satisfy me, and I expected
him to justify the arming of Johnson Hall and his discovered intrigues
with the Mohawks which set the rebels on the march to seize his person.
He gave none, resuming quietly:

"I have hazarded a vast estate, vaster than yours, Sir Lupus, greater
than the estates of all these gentlemen combined. I do it because I owe
obedience to the King who has honored me, and for no other reason on
earth. Yet I do it in fullest confidence and belief that my lands will
be restored to me when this rebellion is stamped on and trodden out to
the last miserable spark."

He hesitated, wiped his thin mouth with his laced handkerchief, and
turned directly towards the patroon.

"You ask me to remain neutral. You promise me that, even at this late
hour, my surrender and oath of neutrality will restore me my estates and
guarantee me a peaceful, industrious life betwixt two tempests. It may
be so, Sir Lupus. I think it would be so. But, my friend, to fail my
King when he has need of me is a villainy I am incapable of. The
fortunes of his Majesty are my fortunes; I stand or fall with him. This
is my duty as I see it. And, gentlemen, I shall follow it while life
endures."

He resumed his seat amid absolute silence. Presently the patroon raised
his eyes and looked at Colonel John Butler.

"May we hear from you, sir?" he asked, gravely.

"I trust that all may, one day, hear from Butler's Rangers," he said.

"And I swear they shall," broke in Walter Butler, his dark eyes burning
like golden coals.

"I think the Royal Greens may make some little noise in the world," said
Captain Campbell, with an oath.

Guy Johnson waved his thin, brown hand towards the patroon: "I hold my
King's commission as intendant of Indian affairs for North America. That
is enough for me. Though they rob me of Guy Park and every acre, I shall
redeem my lands in a manner no man can ever forget!"

"Gentlemen," added Colonel Claus, in his bluff way, "you all make great
merit of risking property and life in this wretched teapot tempest; you
all take credit for unchaining the Mohawks. But you give them no credit.
What have the Iroquois to gain by aiding us? Why do they dig up the
hatchet, hazarding the only thing they have--their lives? Because they
are led by a man who told the rebel Congress that the covenant chain
which the King gave to the Mohawks is still unspotted by dishonor,
unrusted by treachery, unbroken, intact, without one link missing!
Gentlemen, I give you Joseph Brant, war-chief of the Mohawk
nation! Hiro!"

All filled and drank--save three--Sir George Covert, Dorothy Varick, and
myself.

I felt Walter Butler's glowing eyes upon me, and they seemed to burn out
the last vestige of my patience.

"Don't rise! Don't speak now!" whispered Dorothy, her hand closing on my
arm.

"I must speak," I said, aloud, and all heard me and turned on me their
fevered eyes.

"Speak out, in God's name!" said Sir George Covert, and I rose,
repeating, "In God's name, then!"

"Give no offence to Walter Butler, I beg of you," whispered Dorothy.

I scarcely heard her; through the candle-light I saw the ring of eyes
shining, all watching me.

"I applaud the loyal sentiments expressed by Sir John Johnson," I said,
slowly. "Devotion to principle is respected by all men of honor. They
tell me that our King has taxed a commonwealth against its will. You
admit his Majesty's right to do so. That ranges you on one side.
Gentlemen," I said, deliberately, "I deny the right of Englishmen to
take away the liberties of Englishmen. That ranges me on the
other side."

A profound silence ensued. The ring of eyes glowed.

"And now," said I, gravely, "that we stand arrayed, each on his proper
side, honestly, loyally differing one from the other, let us, if we can,
strive to avert a last resort to arms. And if we cannot, let us draw
honorably, and trust to God and a stainless blade!"

I bent my eyes on Walter Butler; he met them with a vacant glare.

"Captain Butler," I said, "if our swords be to-day stainless, he who
first dares employ a savage to do his work forfeits the right to bear
the arms and title of a soldier."

"Mr. Ormond! Mr. Ormond!" broke in Colonel Claus. "Do you impeach Lord
George Germaine?"

"I care not whom I impeach!" I said, hotly. "If Lord George Germaine
counsels the employment of Indians against Englishmen, rebels though
they be, he is a monstrous villain and a fool!"

"Fool!" shouted Colonel Campbell, choking with rage. "He'd be a fool to
let these rebels win over the Iroquois before we did!"

"What rebel has sought to employ the Indians?" I asked. "If any in
authority have dreamed of such a horror, they are guilty as though
already judged and damned!"

"Mr. Ormond," cut in Guy Johnson, fairly trembling with fury, "you deal
very freely in damnation. Do you perhaps assume the divine right which
you deny your King?"

"And do you find merit in crass treason, sir?" burst out McDonald,
striking the table with clinched fist.

"Treason," cut in Sir John Johnson, "was the undoing of a certain noble
duke in Queen Anne's time."

"You are in error," I said, calmly.

"Was James, Duke of Ormond, not impeached by Mr. Stanhope in open
Parliament?" shouted Captain McDonald.

"The House of Commons," I replied, calmly, "dishonored itself and its
traditions by bringing a bill of attainder against the Duke of Ormond.
That could not make him a traitor."

"He was not a traitor," broke out Walter Butler, white to the lips, "but
you are!"

"A lie," I said.

With the awful hue of death stamped on his face, Walter Butler rose and
faced me; and though they dragged us to our seats, shouting and
exclaiming in the uproar made by falling chairs and the rush of feet, he
still kept his eyes on me, shallow, yellow, depthless, terrible eyes.

"A nice scene to pass in women's presence!" roared the patroon. "Dammy,
Captain Butler, the fault lies first with you! Withdraw that word
'traitor,' which touches us all!"

"He has so named himself," said Walter Butler, "Withdraw it! You foul
your own nest, sir!"

A moment passed. "I withdraw it," motioned Butler, with parched lips.

"Then I withdraw the lie," I said, watching him.

"That is well," roared the patroon. "That is as it should be. Shall
kinsmen quarrel at such a time? Offer your hand, Captain Butler. Offer
yours, George."

"No," I said, and gazed mildly at the patroon.

Sir George Covert rose and sauntered over to my chair. Under cover of
the hubbub, not yet subsided, he said: "I fancy you will shortly require
a discreet friend."

"Not at all, sir," I replied, aloud. "If the war spares Mr. Butler and
myself, then I shall call on you. I've another quarrel first." All
turned to look at me, and I added, "A quarrel touching the liberties of
Englishmen." Sir John Johnson sneered, and it was hard to swallow, being
the sword-master that I am.

But the patroon broke out furiously. "Mr. Ormond honors himself. If any
here so much as looks the word 'coward,' he will answer to me--old and
fat as I am! I've no previous engagement; I care not who prevails, King
or Congress. I care nothing so they leave me my own! I'm free to resent
a word, a look, a breath--ay, the flutter of a lid, Sir John!"

"Thanks, uncle," I said, touched to the quick. "These gentlemen are not
fools, and only a fool could dream an Ormond coward."

"Ay, a fool!" cried Walter Butler. "I am an Ormond! There is no
cowardice in the blood. He shall have his own time; he is an Ormond!"

Dorothy Varick raised her bare, white arm and pointed straight at Walter
Butler. "See that your sword remains unspotted, sir," she said, in a
clear voice. "For if you hire the Iroquois to do your work you stand
dishonored, and no true man will meet you on the field you forfeit!"

"What's that?" cried Sir John, astonished, and Sir George Covert cried:

"Brava! Bravissima! There speaks the Ormond through the Varick!"

Walter Butler leaned forward, staring at me. "You refuse to meet me if I
use our Mohawks?"

And Dorothy, her voice trembling a little, picked up the word from his
grinning teeth. "Mohawks understand the word 'honor' better than do you,
Captain Butler, if you are found fighting in their ranks!"

She laid her hand on my arm, still facing him.

"My cousin shall not cross blade with a soiled blade! He dare not--if
only for my own poor honor's sake!"

Then Colonel Claus rose, thumping violently on the table, and, "Here's a
pretty rumpus!" he bawled, "with all right and all wrong, and nobody to
snuff out the spreading flame, but every one a-flinging tallow in a fire
we all may rue! My God! Are we not all kinsmen here, gathered to decent
council how best to save our bacon in this pot a-boiling over? If Mr.
Ormond and Captain Butler must tickle sword-points one day, that is no
cause for dolorous looks or hot words--no! Rather is it a family trick,
a good, old-fashioned game that all boys play, and no harm, either. Have
I not played it, too? Has any gentleman present not pinked or been
pinked on that debatable land we call the field of honor? Come, kinsmen,
we have all had too much wine--or too little."

"Too little!" protested Captain Campbell, with a forced laugh; and Betty
Austin loosed her tongue for the first time to cry out that her mouth
was parched wi' swallowing so many words all piping-hot. Whereat one or
two laughed, and Colonel John Butler said:

Neither Mr. Ormond nor Sir George Covert are rebels. They differ from us
in this matter touching on the Iroquois. If they think we soil our hands
with war-paint, let them keep their own wristbands clean, but fight for
their King as sturdily as shall we this time next month."

"That is a very pleasant view to take," observed Sir George, with a
smile.

"A sensible view," suggested Campbell.

"Amiable," said Sir George, blandly.

"Oh, let us fill to the family!" broke in McDonald, impatiently. "It's
dry work cursing your friends! Fill up, Campbell, and I'll forget
Glencoe ... while I'm drinking."

"Mr. Ormond," said Walter Butler, in a low voice, "I cannot credit ill
of a man of your name. You are young and hot-blooded, and you perhaps
lack as yet a capacity for reflection. I shall look for you among us
when the time comes. No Ormond can desert his King."

"Let it rest so, Captain Butler," I said, soberly. "I will say this:
when I rose I had not meant to say all that I said. But I believe it to
be the truth, though I chose the wrong moment to express it. If I change
this belief I will say so."

And so the outburst of passion sank to ashes; and if the fire was not
wholly extinguished, it at least lay covered, like the heart of a
Seminole council-fire after the sachems have risen and departed with
covered heads.

Drinking began again. The ladies gathered in a group, whispering and
laughing their relief at the turn affairs were taking--all save Dorothy,
who sat serenely beside me, picking the kernels from walnut-shells and
sipping a glass of port.

Sir John Johnson found a coal in the embers on the hearth, and, leaning
half over the table, began to draw on the table-cloth a rude map of
Tryon County.

"All know," he said, "that the province of New York is the key to the
rebel strength. While they hold West Point and Albany and Stanwix, they
hold Tryon County by the throat. Let them occupy Philadelphia. Who
cares? We can take it when we choose. Let them hold their dirty Boston;
let the rebel Washington sneak around the Jerseys. Who cares? There'll
be the finer hunting for us later. Gentlemen, as you know, the invasion
of New York is at hand--has already begun. And that's no secret from the
rebels, either; they may turn and twist and double here in New York
province, but they can't escape the trap, though they saw it long ago."

He raised his head and glanced at me.

"Here is a triangle," he said; "that triangle is New York province. Here
is Albany, the objective of our three armies, the gate of Tryon County,
the plague-spot we are to cleanse, and the military centre. Now mark!
Burgoyne moves through the lakes, south, reducing Ticonderoga and
Edward, routing the rats out of Saratoga, and approaches Albany--so.
Clinton moves north along the Hudson to meet him--so--forcing the
Highlands at Peekskill, taking West Point or leaving it for later
punishment. Nothing can stop him; he meets Burgoyne here, at Albany."

Again he looked at me. "You see, sir, that from two angles of the
triangle converging armies depart towards a common objective."

"I see," I said.

"Now," he resumed, "the third force, under Colonel Barry St. Leger--to
which my regiment and the regiment of Colonel Butler have the honor to
be attached--embarks from Canada, sails up the St. Lawrence, disembarks
at Oswego, on Lake Erie, marches straight on Stanwix, reduces it, and
joins the armies of Clinton and Burgoyne at Albany."

He stood up, casting his bit of wood-coal on the cloth before him.

"That, sir," he said to me, "is the plan of campaign, which the rebels
know and cannot prevent. That means the invasion of New York, the
scouring out of every plague-spot, the capture and destruction of every
rebel between Albany and the Jerseys."

He turned with a cold smile to Colonel Butler. "I think my estates will
not remain long in rebel hands," he said.

"Do you not understand, Mr. Ormond?" cried Captain Campbell, twitching
me by the sleeve, an impertinence I passed, considering him overflushed
with wine. "Do you not comprehend how hopeless is this rebellion now?"

"How hopeless?" drawled Sir George, looking over my shoulder, and, as
though by accident, drawing Campbell's presumptuous hand through his
own arm.

"How hopeless?" echoed Campbell. "Why, here are three armies of his
Majesty's troops concentrating on the heart of Tryon County. What can
the rebels do?"

"The patroons are with us, or have withdrawn from the contest," said Sir
John; "the great folk, military men, and we of the landed gentry are for
the King. What remains to defy his authority?"

"Of what kidney are these Tryon County men?" I asked, quietly. Sir John
Johnson misunderstood me.

"Mr. Ormond," said Sir John, "Tryon County is habited by four races.
First, the Scotch-Irish, many of them rebels, I admit, but many also
loyal. Balance these against my Highlanders, and cross quits. Second,
the Palatines--those men whose ancestors came hither to escape the
armies of Louis XIV. when they devastated the Palatinate. And again I
admit these to be rebels. Third, those of Dutch blood, descended from
brave ancestors, like our worthy patroon here. And once more I will
admit that many of these also are tainted with rebel heresies. Fourth,
the English, three-quarters of whom are Tories. And now I ask you, can
these separate handfuls of mixed descent unite? And, if that were
possible, can they stand for one day, one hour, against the trained
troops of England?"

"God knows," I said.



VI

DAWN

I had stepped from the dining-hall out to the gun-room. Clocks in the
house were striking midnight. In the dining-room the company had now
taken to drinking in earnest, cheering and singing loyal songs, and
through the open door whirled gusts of women's laughter, and I heard the
thud of guitar-strings echo the song's gay words.

All was cool and dark in the body of the house as I walked to the front
door and opened it to bathe my face in the freshening night. I heard the
whippoorwill in the thicket, and the drumming of the dew on the porch
roof, and far away a sound like ocean stirring--the winds in the pines.

The Maker of all things has set in me a love for whatsoever He has
fashioned in His handiwork, whether it be furry beast or pretty bird, or
a spray of April willow, or the tiny insect-creature that pursues its
dumb, blind way through this our common world. So come I by my love for
the voices of the night, and the eyes of the stars, and the whisper of
growing things, and the spice in the air where, unseen, a million tiny
blossoms hold up white cups for dew, or for the misty-winged things that
woo them for their honey.

Now, in the face of this dark, soothing truce that we call night, which
is a buckler interposed between the arrows of two angry suns, I stood
thinking of war and the wrong of it. And all around me in the darkness
insects sang, and delicate, gauzy creatures chirked and throbbed and
strummed in cadence, while the star's light faintly silvered the still
trees, and distant monotones of the forest made a sustained and steady
rushing sound like the settling ebb of shallow seas. That to my
conscience I stood committed, I could not doubt. I must draw sword, and
draw it soon, too--not for Tory or rebel, not for King or Congress, not
for my estates nor for my kin, but for the ancient liberties of
Englishmen, which England menaced to destroy.

That meant time lost in a return to my own home; and yet--why? Here in
this county of Tryon one might stand for liberty of thought and action
as stanchly as at home. Here was a people with no tie or sympathy to
weld them save that common love of liberty--a scattered handful of
races, without leaders, without resources, menaced by three armies,
menaced, by the five nations of the great confederacy--the Iroquois.

To return to the sea islands on the Halifax and fight for my own acres
was useless if through New York the British armies entered to the heart
of the rebellion, splitting the thirteen colonies with a flaming wedge.

At home I had no kin to defend; my elder brother had sailed to England,
my superintendent, my overseers, my clerks were all Tory; my slaves
would join the Minorcans or the blacks in Georgia, and I, single-handed,
could not lift a finger to restrain them.

But here, in the dire need of Tryon County, I might be of use. Here was
the very forefront of battle where, beyond the horizon, invasion,
uncoiling hydra folds, already raised three horrid, threatening crests.

Ugh!--the butcher's work that promised if the Iroquois were uncaged! It
made me shudder, for I knew something of that kind of war, having seen a
slight service against the Seminoles in my seventeenth year, and
against the Chehaws and Tallassies a few months later. Also in November
of 1775 I accompanied Governor Tonyn to Picolata, but when I learned
that our mission was the shameful one of securing the Indians as British
allies I resigned my captaincy in the Royal Rangers and returned to the
Halifax to wait and watch events.

And now, thoughtful, sad, wondering a little how it all would end, I
paced to and fro across the porch. The steady patter of the dew was like
the long roll beating--low, incessant, imperious--and my heart leaped
responsive to the summons, till I found myself standing rigid, staring
into the darkness with fevered eyes.

The smothered, double drumming of a guitar from the distant revel
assailed my ears, and a fresh, sweet voice, singing:

     "As at my door I chanced to be
                    A-spinning,
                        Spinning,
     A grenadier he winked at me
                    A-grinning,
                        Grinning!
     As at my door I chanced to be
     A grenadier he winked at me.
     And now my song's begun, you see!

     "My grenadier he said to me.
                    So jolly,
                        Jolly,
     'We tax the tea, but love is free,
                    Sweet Molly,
                        Molly!'
     My grenadier he said to me,
     'We tax the tea, but love is free!'
     And so my song it ends, you see,
                    In folly,
                        Folly!"

I listened angrily; the voice was Dorothy Varick's, and I wondered that
she had the heart to sing such foolishness for men whose grip was
already on her people's throats.

In the dining-hall somebody blew the view-halloo on a hunting-horn, and
I heard cheers and the dulled roar of a chorus:

"--Rally your men!
Campbell and Cameron,
Fox-hunting gentlemen,
Follow the Jacobite back to his den!
Run with the runaway rogue to his runway,
     Stole-away!
     Stole-away!
     Gallop to Galway,
Back to Broadalbin and double to Perth;
Ride! for the rebel is running to earth!"

And the shrill, fierce Highland cry, "Gralloch him!" echoed the infamous
catch, till the night air rang faintly in the starlight.

"Cruachan!" shouted Captain Campbell; "the wild myrtle to clan Campbell,
the heather to the McDonalds! An't--Arm, chlanna!"

And a great shout answered him: "The army! Sons of the army!"

Sullen and troubled and restless, I paced the porch, and at length sat
down on the steps to cool my hot forehead in my hands.

And as I sat, there came my cousin Dorothy to the porch to look for me,
fanning her flushed face with a great, plumy fan, the warm odor of roses
still clinging to her silken skirts.

"Have they ended?" I asked, none too graciously.

"They are beginning," she said, with a laugh, then drew a deep breath
and waved her fan slowly. "Ah, the sweet May night!" she murmured, eyes
fixed on the north star. "Can you believe that men could dream of war
in this quiet paradise of silence?"

I made no answer, and she went on, fanning her hot cheeks: "They're off
to Oswego by dawn, the whole company, gallant and baggage." She laughed
wickedly. "I don't mean their ladies, cousin."

"How could you?" I protested, grimly.

"Their wagons," she said, "started to-day at sundown from Tribes Hill;
Sir John, the Butlers, and the Glencoe gentlemen follow at dawn. There
are post-chaises for the ladies out yonder, and an escort, too. But
nobody would stop them; they're as safe as Catrine Montour."

"Dorothy, who is this Catrine Montour?" I asked.

"A woman, cousin; a terrible hag who runs through the woods, and none
dare stop her."

"A real hag? You mean a ghost?"

"No, no; a real hag, with black locks hanging, and long arms that could
choke an ox."

"Why does she run through the woods?" I asked, amused.

"Why? Who knows? She is always seen running."

"Where does she run to?"

"I don't know. Once Henry Stoner, the hunter, followed her, and they say
no one but Jack Mount can outrun him; but she ran and ran, and he after
her, till the day fell down, and he fell gasping like a foundered horse.
But she ran on."

"Oh, tally," I said; "do you believe that?"

"Why, I know it is true," she replied, ceasing her fanning to stare at
me with calm, wide eyes. "Do you doubt it?"

"How can I?" said I, laughing. "Who is this busy hag, Catrine Montour?"

"They say," said Dorothy, waving her fan thoughtfully, "that her father
was that Count Frontenac who long ago governed the Canadas, and that her
mother was a Huron woman. Many believe her to be a witch. I don't know.
Milk curdles in the pans when she is running through the forest ... they
say. Once it rained blood on our front porch."

"Those red drops fall from flocks of butterflies," I said, laughing. "I
have seen red showers in Florida."

"I should like to be sure of that," said Dorothy, musing. Then, raising
her starry eyes, she caught me laughing.

"Tease me," she smiled. "I don't care. You may even make love to me if
you choose."

"Make love to you!" I repeated, reddening.

"Why not? It amuses--and you're only a cousin."

Astonishment was followed by annoyance as she coolly disqualified me
with a careless wave of her fan, wafting the word "cousin" into my
very teeth.

"Suppose I paid court to you and gained your affections?" I said.

"You have them," she replied, serenely.

"I mean your heart?"

"You have it."

"I mean your--love, Dorothy?"

"Ah," she said, with a faint smile, "I wish you could--I wish somebody
could."

I was silent.

"And I never shall love; I know it, I feel it--here!" She pressed her
side with a languid sigh that nigh set me into fits o' laughter, yet I
swallowed my mirth till it choked me, and looked at the stars.

"Perhaps," said I, "the gentle passion might be awakened with
patience ... and practice."

"Ah, no," she said.

"May I touch your hand?"

Indolently fanning, she extended her fingers. I took them in my hands.

"I am about to begin," I said.

"Begin," she said.

So, her hand resting in mine, I told her that she had robbed the skies
and set two stars in violets for her eyes; that nature's one miracle was
wrought when in her cheeks roses bloomed beneath the snow; that the
frosted gold she called her hair had been spun from December sunbeams,
and that her voice was but the melodies stolen from breeze and brook and
golden-throated birds.

"For all those pretty words," she said, "love still lies sleeping."

"Perhaps my arm around your waist--"

"Perhaps."

"So?"

"Yes."

And, after a silence:

"Has love stirred?"

"Love sleeps the sounder."

"And if I touched your lips?"

"Best not."

"Why?"

"I'm sure that love would yawn."

Chilled, for unconsciously I had begun to find in this child-play an
interest unexpected, I dropped her unresisting fingers.

"Upon my word," I said, almost irritably, "I can believe you when you
say you never mean to wed."

"But I don't say it," she protested.

"What? You have a mind to wed?"

"Nor did I say that, either," she said, laughing.

"Then what the deuce do you say?"

"Nothing, unless I'm entreated politely."

"I entreat you, cousin, most politely," I said.

"Then I may tell you that, though I trouble my head nothing as to
wedlock, I am betrothed."

"Betrothed!" I repeated, angrily disappointed, yet I could not think
why.

"Yes--pledged."

"To whom?"

"To a man, silly."

"A man!"

"With two legs, two arms, and a head, cousin."

"You ... love him?"

"No," she said, serenely. "It's only to wed and settle down some day."

"You don't love him?"

"No," she repeated, a trifle impatiently.

"And you mean to wed him?"

"Listen to the boy!" she exclaimed. "I've told him ten times that I am
betrothed, which means a wedding. I am not one of those who
break paroles."

"Oh ... you are now free on parole."

"Prisoner on parole," she said, lightly. "I'm to name the day o'
punishment, and I promise you it will not be soon."

"Dorothy," I said, "suppose in the mean time you fell in love?"

"I'd like to," she said, sincerely.

"But--but what would you do then?"

"Love, silly!"

"And ... marry?"

"Marry him whom I have promised."

"But you would be wretched!"

"Why? I can't fancy wedding one I love. I should be ashamed, I think.
I--if I loved I should not want the man I loved to touch me--not
with gloves."

"You little fool!" I said. "You don't know what you say."

"Yes, I do!" she cried, hotly. "Once there was a captain from Boston; I
adored him. And once he kissed my hand and I hated him!"

"I wish I'd been there," I muttered.

She, waving her fan to and fro, continued: "I often think of splendid
men, and, dreaming in the sunshine, sometimes I adore them. But always
these day-dream heroes keep their distance; and we talk and talk, and
plan to do great good in the world, until I fall a-napping.... Heigho!
I'm yawning now." She covered her face with her fan and leaned back
against a pillar, crossing her feet. "Tell me about London," she said.
But I knew no more than she.

"I'd be a belle there," she observed. "I'd have a train o' beaux and
macaronis at my heels, I warrant you! The foppier, the more it would
please me. Think, cousin--ranks of them all a-simper, ogling me through
a hundred quizzing-glasses! Heigho! There's doubtless some deviltry in
me, as Sir Lupus says."

She yawned again, looked up at the stars, then fell to twisting her fan
with idle fingers.

"I suppose," she said, more to herself than to me, "that Sir John is now
close to the table's edge, and Colonel Claus is under it.... Hark to
their song, all off the key! But who cares?... so that they quarrel
not.... Like those twin brawlers of Glencoe, ... brooding on feuds nigh
a hundred years old.... I have no patience with a brooder, one who
treasures wrongs, ... like Walter Butler." She looked up at me.

"I warned you," she said.

"It is not easy to avoid insulting him," I replied.

"I warned you of that, too. Now you've a quarrel, and a reckoning in
prospect."

"The reckoning is far off," I retorted, ill-humoredly.

"Far off--yes. Further away than you know. You will never cross swords
with Walter Butler."

"And why not?"

"He means to use the Iroquois."

I was silent.

"For the honor of your women, you cannot fight such a man," she added,
quietly.

"I wish I had the right to protect your honor," I said, so suddenly and
so bitterly that I surprised myself.

"Have you not?" she asked, gravely. "I am your kinswoman."

"Yes, yes, I know," I muttered, and fell to plucking at the lace on my
wristbands.

The dawn's chill was in the air, the dawn's silence, too, and I saw the
calm morning star on the horizon, watching the dark world--the dark, sad
world, lying so still, so patient, under the ancient sky.

That melancholy--which is an omen, too--left me benumbed, adrift in a
sort of pained contentment which alternately soothed and troubled, so
that at moments I almost drowsed, and at moments I heard my heart
stirring, as though in dull expectancy of beatitudes undreamed of.

Dorothy, too, sat listless, pensive, and in her eyes a sombre shadow,
such as falls on children's eyes at moments, leaving their
elders silent.

Once in the false dawn a cock crowed, and the shrill, far cry left the
raw air emptier and the silence more profound. I looked wistfully at the
maid beside me, chary of intrusion into the intimacy of her silence.
Presently her vague eyes met mine, and, as though I had spoken, she
said: "What is it?"

"Only this: I am sorry you are pledged."

"Why, cousin?"

"It is unfair."

"To whom?"

"To you. Bid him undo it and release you."

"What matters it?" she said, dully.

"To wed, one should love," I muttered.

"I cannot," she answered, without moving. "I would I could. This night
has witched me to wish for love--to desire it; and I sit here
a-thinking, a-thinking.... If love ever came to me I should think it
would come now--ere the dawn; here, where all is so dark and quiet and
close to God.... Cousin, this night, for the first moment in all my
life, I have desired love."

"To be loved?"

"No, ... to love."

I do not know how long our silence lasted; the faintest hint of silver
touched the sky above the eastern forest; a bird awoke, sleepily
twittering; another piped out fresh and clear, another, another; and, as
the pallid tint spread in the east, all the woodlands burst out ringing
into song.

In the house a door opened and a hoarse voice muttered thickly. Dorothy
paid no heed, but I rose and stepped into the hallway, where servants
were guiding the patroon to bed, and a man hung to the bronze-cannon
post, swaying and mumbling threats--Colonel Claus, wig awry, stock
unbuckled, and one shoe gone. Faugh! the stale, sour air sickened me.

Then a company of gentlemen issued from the dining-hall, and, as I
stepped back to the porch to give them room, their gray faces were
turned to me with meaningless smiles or blank inquiry.

"Where's my orderly?" hiccoughed Sir John Johnson. "Here, you, call my
rascals; get the chaises up! Dammy, I want my post-chaise, d' ye hear?"

Captain Campbell stumbled out to the lawn and fumbled about his lips
with a whistle, which he finally succeeded in blowing. This
accomplished, he gravely examined the sky.

"There they are," said Dorothy, quietly; and I saw, in the dim morning
light, a dozen horsemen stirring in the shadows of the stockade. And
presently the horses were brought up, followed by two post-chaises, with
sleepy post-boys sitting their saddles and men afoot trailing rifles.

Colonel Butler came out of the door with Magdalen Brant, who was half
asleep, and aided her to a chaise. Guy Johnson followed with Betty
Austin, his arm around her, and climbed in after her. Then Sir John
brought Claire Putnam to the other chaise, entering it himself behind
her. And the post-boys wheeled their horses out through the stockade,
followed at a gallop by the shadowy horsemen.

And now the Butlers, father and son, set toe to stirrup; and I saw
Walter Butler kick the servant who held his stirrup--why, I do not know,
unless the poor, tired fellow's hands shook.

Up into their saddles popped the Glencoe captains; then Campbell swore
an oath and dismounted to look for Colonel Claus; and presently two
blacks carried him out and set him in his saddle, which he clung to,
swaying like a ship in distress, his riding-boots slung around his neck,
stockinged toes clutching the stirrups.

Away they went, followed at a trot by the armed men on foot; fainter and
fainter sounded the clink, clink of their horses' hoofs, then died away.

In the silence, the east reddened to a flame tint. I turned to the open
doorway; Dorothy was gone, but old Cato stood there, withered hands
clasped, peaceful eyes on me.

"Mawnin', suh," he said, sweetly. "Yaas, suh, de night done gone and de
sun mos' up. H'it dat-a-way, Mars' George, suh, h'it jess natch'ly
dat-a-way in dishyere world--day, night, mo' day. What de Bible say?
Life, def, mo' life, suh. When we's daid we'll sho' find it dat-a-way."



VII

AFTERMATH

Cato at my bedside with basin, towel, and razor, a tub of water on the
floor, and the sun shining on my chamber wall. These, and a stale taste
on my tongue, greeted me as I awoke.

First to wash teeth and mouth with orris, then to bathe, half asleep
still; and yet again to lie a-thinking in my arm-chair, robed in a
banyan, cheeks all suds and nose sniffing the scented water in the
chin-basin which I held none too steady; and I said, peevishly, "What a
fool a man is to play the fool! Do you hear me, Cato?"

He said that he marked my words, and I bade him hold his tongue and tell
me the hour.

"Nine, suh."

"Then I'll sleep again," I muttered, but could not, and after the
morning draught felt better. Chocolate and bread, new butter and new
eggs, put me in a kinder humor. Cato, burrowing in my boxes, drew out a
soft, new suit of doeskin with new points, new girdle, and new
moccasins.

"Oh," said I, watching him, "am I to go forest-running to-day?"

"Mars' Varick gwine ride de boun's," he announced, cheerfully.

"Ride to hounds?" I repeated, astonished. "In May?"

"No, suh! Ride de boun's, suh."

"Oh, ride the boundaries?"

"Yaas, suh."

"Oh, very well. What time does he start?"

"'Bout noontide, suh."

The old man strove to straighten my short queue, but found it hopeless,
so tied it close and dusted on the French powder.

"Curly head, curly head," he muttered to himself. "Dess lak yo'
pap's!... an' Miss Dorry's. Law's sakes, dishyere hair wuf mo'n
eight dollar."

"You think my hair worth more than eight dollars?" I asked, amused.

"H'it sho'ly am, suh."

"But why eight dollars, Cato?"

"Das what the redcoats say; eight dollars fo' one rebel scalp, suh."

I sat up, horrified. "Who told you that?" I demanded.

"All de gemmen done say so--Mars' Varick, Mars' Johnsing, Cap'in
Butler."

"Bah! they said it to plague you, Cato," I muttered; but as I said it I
saw the old slave's eyes and knew that he had told the truth.

Sobered, I dressed me in my forest dress, absently lacing the
hunting-shirt and tying knee-points, while the old man polished hatchet
and knife and slipped them into the beaded scabbards swinging on
either hip.

Then I went out, noiselessly descending the stairway, and came all
unawares upon the young folk and the children gathered on the sunny
porch, busy with their morning tasks.

They neither saw nor heard me; I leaned against the doorway to see the
pretty picture at my ease. The children, Sam and Benny, sat all hunched
up, scowling over their books.

Close to a fluted pillar, Dorothy Varick reclined in a chair,
embroidering her initials on a pair of white silk hose, using the
Rosemary stitch. And as her delicate fingers flew, her gold thimble
flashed like a fire-fly in the sun.

At her feet, cross-legged, sat Cecile Butler, velvet eyes intent on a
silken petticoat which she was embroidering with pale sprays of flowers.

Ruyven and Harry, near by, dipped their brushes into pans of brilliant
French colors, the one to paint marvellous birds on a silken fan, the
other to decorate a pair of white satin shoes with little pink blossoms
nodding on a vine.

Loath to disturb them, I stood smiling, silent; and presently Dorothy,
without raising her eyes, called on Samuel to read his morning lesson,
and he began, breathing heavily:

     "I know that God is wroth at me
       For I was born in sin;
     My heart is so exceeding vile
       Damnation dwells therein;
     Awake I sin, asleep I sin,
       I sin with every breath,
     When Adam fell he went to hell
       And damned us all to death!"

He stopped short, scowling, partly from fright, I think.

"That teaches us to obey God," said Ruyven, severely, dipping his brush
into the pink paint-cake.

"What's the good of obeying God if we're all to go to hell?" asked
Cecile.

"We're not all going to hell," said Dorothy, calmly. "God saves His
elect."

"Who are the elect?" demanded Samuel, faintly hopeful.

"Nobody knows," replied Cecile, grimly; "but I guess--"

"Benny," broke in Dorothy, "read your lesson! Cecile, stop your
chatter!" And Benny, cheerful and sceptical, read his lines:

     "When by thpectators I behold
       What beauty doth adorn me,
     Or in a glath when I behold
       How thweetly God did form me.
     Hath God thuch comeliness bethowed
       And on me made to dwell?--
     What pity thuch a pretty maid
       Ath I thoud go to hell!"

And Benny giggled.

"Benjamin," said Cecile, in an awful voice, "are you not terrified at
what you read?"

"Huh!" said Benny, "I'm not a 'pretty maid'; I'm a boy."

"It's all the same, little dunce!" insisted Cecile.

"Doeth God thay little boyth are born to be damned?" he asked, uneasily.

"No, no," interrupted Dorothy; "God saves His elect, I tell you. Don't
you remember what He says?

     "'You sinners are, and such a share
       As sinners may expect;
     Such you shall have; for I do save
       None but my own elect.'

"And you see," she added, confidently, "I think we all are elect, and
there's nothing to be afraid of. Benny, stop sniffing!"

"Are you sure?" asked Cecile, gloomily.

Dorothy, stitching serenely, answered: "I am sure God is fair."

"Oh, everybody knows that," observed Cecile. "What we want to know is,
what does He mean to do with us."

"If we're good," added Samuel, fervently.

"He will damn us, perhaps," said Ruyven, sucking his paint-brush and
looking critically at his work.

"Damn us? Why?" inquired Dorothy, raising her eyes.

"Oh, for all that sin we were born in," said Ruyven, absently.

"But that's not fair," said Dorothy.

"Are you smarter than a clergyman?" sneered Ruyven.

Dorothy spread the white silk stocking over one knee. "I don't know,"
she sighed, "sometimes I think I am."

"Pride," commented Cecile, complacently. "Pride is sin, so there you
are, Dorothy."

"There you are, Dorothy!" said I, laughing from the doorway; and, "Oh,
Cousin Ormond!" they all chorused, scrambling up to greet me.

"Have a care!" cried Dorothy. "That is my wedding petticoat! Oh, he's
slopped water on it! Benny, you dreadful villain!"

"No, he hasn't," said I, coming out to greet her and Cecile, with Samuel
and Benny hanging to my belt, and Harry fast hold of one arm. "And
what's all this about wedding finery? Is there a bride in this
vicinity?"

Dorothy held out a stocking. "A bride's white silken hose," she said,
complacently.

"Embroidered on the knee with the bride's initials," added Cecile,
proudly.

"Yours, Dorothy?" I demanded.

"Yes, but I shall not wear them for ages and ages. I told you so last
night."

"But I thought Dorothy had best make ready," remarked Cecile. "Dorothy
is to carry that fan and wear those slippers and this petticoat and the
white silk stockings when she weds Sir George."

"Sir George who?" I asked, bluntly.

"Why, Sir George Covert. Didn't you know?"

I looked at Dorothy, incensed without a reason.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, ungraciously.

"Why didn't you ask me?" she replied, a trifle hurt.

I was silent.

Cecile said: "I hope that Dorothy will marry him soon. I want to see how
she looks in this petticoat."

"Ho!" sneered Harry, "you just want to wear one like it and be a
bridesmaid and primp and give yourself airs. I know you!"

"Sir George Covert is a good fellow," remarked Ruyven, with a
patronizing nod at Dorothy; "but I always said he was too old for you.
You should see how gray are his temples when he wears no powder."

"He has fine eyes," murmured Cecile.

"He's too old; he's forty," repeated Ruyven.

"His legs are shapely," added Cecile, sentimentally.

Dorothy gave a despairing upward glance at me. "Are these children not
silly?" she said, with a little shrug.

"We may be children, and we may be silly," said Ruyven, "but if we were
you we'd wed our cousin Ormond."

"All of you together?" inquired Dorothy.

"You know what I mean," he snapped.

"Why don't you?" demanded Harry, vaguely, twitching Dorothy by the
apron.

"Do what?"

"Wed our cousin Ormond."

"But he has not asked me," she said, smiling.

Harry turned to me and took my arm affectionately in his.

"You will ask her, won't you?" he murmured. "She's very nice when she
chooses."

"She wouldn't have me," I said, laughing.

"Oh yes, she would; and then you need never leave us, which would be
pleasant for all, I think. Won't you ask her, cousin?"

"You ask her," I said.

"Dorothy," he broke out, eagerly. "You will wed him, won't you? Our
cousin Ormond says he will if you will. And I'll tell Sir George that
it's just a family matter, and, besides, he's too old--"

"Yes, tell Sir George that," sneered Ruyven, who had listened in an
embarrassment that certainly Dorothy had not betrayed. "You're a great
fool, Harry. Don't you know that when people want to wed they ask each
other's permission to ask each other's father, and then their fathers
ask each other, and then they ask each--"

"Other!" cried Dorothy, laughing deliciously. "Oh, Ruyven, Ruyven, you
certainly will be the death of me!"

"All the same," said Harry, sullenly, "our cousin wishes to wed you."

"Do you?" asked Dorothy, raising her amused eyes to me.

"I fear I come too late," I said, forcing a smile I was not inclined to.

"Ah, yes; too late," she sighed, pretending a doleful mien.

"Why?" demanded Harry, blankly.

Dorothy shook her head. "Sir George would never permit me such a
liberty. If he would, our cousin Ormond and I could wed at once; you see
I have my bride's stockings here; Cecile could do my hair, Sammy carry
my prayer-book, Benny my train, Ruyven read the service--"

Harry, flushing at the shout of laughter, gave Dorothy a dark look,
turned and eyed me, then scowled again at Dorothy.

"All the same," he said, slowly, "you're a great goose not to wed
him.... And you'll be sorry ... when he's dead!"

At this veiled prophecy of my approaching dissolution, all were silent
save Dorothy and Ruyven, whose fresh laughter rang out peal on peal.

"Laugh," said Harry, gloomily; "but you won't laugh when he's killed in
the war, ... and scalped, too."

Ruyven, suddenly sober, looked up at me. Dorothy bent over her
needle-work and examined it attentively.

"Are you going to the war?" asked Cecile, plaintively.

"Of course he's going; so am I," replied Ruyven, striking a careless
pose against a pillar.

"On which side, Ruyven?" inquired Dorothy, sorting her silks.

"On my cousin's side, of course," he said, uneasily.

"Which side is that?" asked Cecile.

Confused, flushing painfully, the boy looked at me; and I rescued him,
saying, "We'll talk that over when we ride bounds this afternoon. Ruyven
and I understand each other, don't we, Ruyven?"

He gave me a grateful glance. "Yes," he said, shyly.

Sir George Covert, a trifle pallid, but bland and urbane, strolled out
to the porch, saluting us gracefully. He paused beside Dorothy, who
slipped her needle through her work and held out her hand for him
to salute.

"Are you also going to the wars?" she asked, with a friendly smile.

"Where are they?" he inquired, pretending a fierce eagerness. "Point out
some wars and I'll go to 'em post haste!"

"They're all around us," said Sammy, solemnly.

"Then we'd best get to horse and lose no time, Mr. Ormond," he observed,
passing his arm through mine. In a lower voice he added: "Headache?"

"Oh no," I said, hastily.

"Lucky dog. Sir Lupus lies as though struck by lightning. I'm all
a-quiver, too. A man of my years is a fool to do such things. But I do,
Ormond, I do; ass that I am. Do you ride bounds with Sir Lupus?"

"If he desires it," I said.

"Then I'll see you when you pass my villa on the Vlaie, where you'll
find a glass of wine waiting. Do you ride, Miss Dorothy?"

"Yes," she said.

A stable lad brought his horse to the porch. He took leave of Dorothy
with a grace that charmed even me; yet, in his bearing towards her I
could detect the tender pride he had in her, and that left me cold and
thoughtful.

All liked him, though none appeared to regard him exactly as a kinsman,
nor accorded him that vague shade of intimacy which is felt in kinship,
not in comradeship alone, and which they already accorded me.

Dorothy walked with him to the stockade gate, the stable lad following
with his horse; and I saw them stand there in low-voiced conversation,
he lounging and switching at the weeds with his riding-crop; she, head
bent, turning the gold thimble over and over between her fingers. And I
wondered what they were saying.

Presently he mounted and rode away, a graceful, manly figure in the
saddle, and not turning like a <DW2> to blow a kiss at his betrothed, nor
spurring his horse to show his skill--for which I coldly respected him.

Harry, Cecile, and the children gathered their paints and books and
went into the house, demanding that I should follow.

"Dorothy is beckoning us," observed Ruyven, gathering up his paints.

I looked towards her and she raised her hand, motioning us to come.

"About father's watch," she said. "I have just consulted Sir George, and
he says that neither I nor Ruyven have won, seeing that Ruyven used the
coin he did--"

"Very well," cried Ruyven, triumphantly. "Then let us match dates again.
Have you a shilling, Cousin Ormond?"

"I'll throw hunting-knives for it," suggested Dorothy.

"Oh no, you won't," retorted her brother, warily.

"Then I'll race you to the porch."

He shook his head.

She laughed tauntingly.

"I'm not afraid," said Ruyven, reddening and glancing at me.

"Then I'll wrestle you."

Stung by the malice in her smile, Ruyven seized her.

"No, no! Not in these clothes!" she said, twisting to free herself.
"Wait till I put on my buckskins. Don't use me so roughly, you tear my
laced apron. Oh! you great booby!" And with a quick cry of resentment
she bent, caught her brother, and swung him off his feet clean over her
left shoulder slap on the grass.

"Silly!" she said, cheeks aflame. "I have no patience to be mauled."
Then she laughed uncertainly to see him lying there, too astonished
to get up.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

"Who taught you that hold?" he demanded, indignantly, scrambling to his
feet. "I thought I alone knew that."

"Why, Captain Campbell taught you last week and ... I was at the
window ... sewing," she said, demurely.

Ruyven looked at me, disgusted, muttering, "If I could learn things the
way she does, I'd not waste time at King's College, I can tell you."

"You're not going to King's College, anyhow," said his sister. "York is
full o' loyal rebels and Tory patriots, and father says he'll be damned
if you can learn logic where all lack it."

She held out her hand, smiling. "No malice, Ruyven, and we'll forgive
each other."

Her brother met the clasp; then, hands in his pockets, followed us back
through the stockade towards the porch. I was pleased to see that his
pride had suffered no more than his body from the fall he got, which
augured well for a fair-minded manhood.

As we approached the house I heard hollow noises within, like groans;
and I stopped, listening intently.

"It is Sir Lupus snoring," observed Ruyven. "He will wake soon; I think
I had best call Tulip," he added, exchanging a glance with his sister;
and entered the house calling, "Cato! Cato! Tulip! Tulip! I say!"

"Who is Tulip?" I asked of Dorothy, who lingered at the threshold
folding her embroidery into a bundle.

"Tulip? Oh, Tulip cooks for us--black as a June crow, cousin. She is
voodoo."

"Evil-eye and all?" I asked, smiling.

Dorothy looked up shyly. "Don't you believe in the evil-eye?"

I was not perfectly sure whether I did or not, but I said "No."

"To believe is not necessarily to be afraid," she added, quickly.

Now, had I believed in the voodoo craft, or in the power of an evil-eye,
I should also have feared. Those who have ever witnessed a sea-island
witch-dance can bear me out, and I think a man may dread a hag and be no
coward either. But distance and time allay the memories of such uncanny
works. I had forgotten whether I was afraid or not. So I said, "There
are no witches, Dorothy."

She looked at me, dreamily. "There are none ... that I fear."

"Not even Catrine Montour?" I asked, to plague her.

"No; it turns me cold to think of her running in the forest, but I am
not afraid."

She stood pensive in the doorway, rolling and unrolling her embroidery.
Harry and Cecile came out, flourishing alder poles from which lines and
hooks dangled. Samuel and Benny carried birchen baskets and
shallow nets.

"If we're to have Mohawk chubbs," said Cecile, "you had best come with
us, Dorothy. Ruyven has a book and has locked himself in the play-room."

But Dorothy shook her head, saying that she meant to ride the boundary
with us; and the children, after vainly soliciting my company, trooped
off towards that same grist-mill in the ravine below the bridge which I
had observed on my first arrival at Varick Manor.

"I am wondering," said Dorothy, "how you mean to pass the morning. You
had best steer wide of Sir Lupus until he has breakfasted."

"I've a mind to sleep," I said, guiltily.

"I think it would be pleasant to ride together. Will you?" she asked;
then, laughing, she said, frankly, "Since you have come I do nothing but
follow you.... It is long since I have had a young companion, ... and,
when I think that you are to leave us, it spurs me to lose no moment
that I shall regret when you are gone."

No shyness marred the pretty declaration of her friendship, and it
touched me the more keenly perhaps. The confidence in her eyes, lifted
so sweetly, waked the best in me; and if my response was stumbling, it
was eager and warm, and seemed to please her.

"Tulip! Tulip!" she cried, "I want my dinner! Now!" And to me, "We will
eat what they give us; I shall dress in my buckskins and we will ride
the boundary and register the signs, and Sir Lupus and the others can
meet us at Sir George Covert's pleasure-house on the Vlaie. Does it
please you, Cousin George?"

I looked into her bright eyes and said that it pleased me more than I
dared say, and she laughed and ran up-stairs, calling back to me that I
should order our horses and tell Cato to tell Tulip to fetch meat and
claret to the gun-room.

I whistled a small, black stable lad and bade him bring our mounts to
the porch, then wandered at random down the hallway, following my nose,
which scented the kitchen, until I came to a closed door.

Behind that door meats were cooking--I could take my oath o' that--so I
opened the door and poked my nose in.

"Tulip," I said, "come here!"

An ample black woman, aproned and turbaned, looked at me through the
steam of many kettles, turned and cuffed the lad at the spit, dealt a
few buffets among the scullions, and waddled up to me, bobbing and
curtsying.

"Aunt Tulip," I said, gravely, "are you voodoo?"

"Folks says ah is, Mars' Ormon'," she said, in her soft Georgia accent.

"Oh, they do, do they? Look at me, Aunt Tulip. What do my eyes tell you
of me?"

Her dark eyes, fixed on mine, seemed to change, and I thought little
glimmers of pure gold tinted the iris, like those marvellous restless
tints in a gorgeous bubble. Certainly her eyes were strange, almost
compelling, for I felt a faint rigidity in my cheeks and my eyes
returned directly to hers as at an unspoken command.

"Can you read me, aunty?" I asked, trying to speak easily, yet feeling
the stiffness growing in my cheeks.

"Ah sho' can," she said, stepping nearer.

"What is my fate, then?"

"Ah 'spec' yo' gwine fine yo'se'f in love," she said, softly; and I
strove to smile with ever-stiffening lips.

A little numbness that tingled spread over me; it was pleasant; I did
not care to withdraw my eyes. Presently the tightness in my face
relaxed, I moved my lips, smiling vaguely.

"In love," I repeated.

"Yaas, Mars' Ormon'."

"When?"

"'Fore yo' know h'it, honey."

"Tell me more."

"'Spec' ah done tole yo' too much, honey." She looked at me steadily.
"Pore Mars' Gawge," she murmured, "'spec' ah done tole yo' too much. But
it sho' am a-comin', honey, an' h'it gwine come pow'ful sudden, an' h'it
gwine mek yo' pow'ful sick."

"Am I to win her?"

"No, honey."

"Is there no hope, Aunt Tulip?"

She hesitated as though at fault; I felt the tenseness in my face once
more; then, for one instant, I lost track of time; for presently I found
myself standing in the hallway watching Sir Lupus through the open door
of the gun-room, and Sir Lupus was very angry.

"Dammy!" he roared, "am I to eat my plate? Cato! I want my porridge!"

Confused, I stood blinking at him, and he at table, bibbed like a babe,
mad as a hornet, hammering on the cloth with a great silver spoon and
bellowing that they meant to starve him.

"I don't remember how I came here," I began, then flushed furiously at
my foolishness.

"Remember!" he shouted. "I don't remember anything! I don't want to
remember anything! I want my porridge! I want it now! Damnation!"

Cato, hastening past me with the steaming dish, was received with a
yelp. But at last Sir Lupus got his spoon into the mess and a portion of
the mess into his mouth, and fell to gobbling and growling, paying me no
further attention. So I closed the door of the gun-room on the great
patroon and walked to the foot of the stairway.

A figure in soft buckskins was descending--a blue-eyed, graceful youth
who hailed me with a gesture.

"Dorothy!" I said, fascinated.

Her fringed hunting-shirt fell to her knees, the short shoulder-cape
from throat to breast; gay fringe fluttered from shoulder to wrist, and
from thigh to ankle; and her little scarlet-quilled moccasins went
pat-patter-pat as she danced down the stairway and stood before me,
sweeping her cap from her golden head in exaggerated salute.

She seemed smaller in her boy's dress, fuller, too, and rounder of neck
and limb; and the witchery of her beauty left me silent--a tribute she
found delightful, for she blushed very prettily and bowed again in dumb
acknowledgment of the homage all too evident in my eyes.

Cato came with a dish of meat and a bottle of claret; and we sat down
on the stairs, punishing bottle and platter till neither drop nor
scrap remained.

"Don't leave these dishes for Sir Lupus to fall over!" she cried to
Cato, then sprang to her feet and was out of the door before I could
move, whistling for our horses.

As I came out the horses arrived, and I hastened forward to put her into
her saddle, but she was up and astride ere I reached the ground, coolly
gathering bridle and feeling with her soft leather toes for
the stirrups.

Astonished, for I had never seen a girl so mounted, I climbed to my
saddle and wheeled my mare, following her out across the lawn, through
the stockade and into the road, where I pushed my horse forward and
ranged up beside her at a gallop, just as she reached the bridge.

"See!" she cried, with a sweep of her arm, "there are the children down
there fishing under the mill." And she waved her small cap of silver
fox, calling in a clear, sweet voice the Indian cry of triumph, "Koue!"



VIII

RIDING THE BOUNDS

For the first half-mile our road lay over that same golden, hilly
country, and through the same splendid forests which I had traversed on
my way to the manor. Then we galloped past cultivated land, where
clustered spears of Indian corn sprouted above the reddish golden soil,
and sheep fed in stony pastures.

Around the cabins of the tenantry, fields of oats and barley glimmered,
thin blades pricking the loam, brilliant as splintered emeralds.

A few dropping blossoms still starred the apple-trees, pears showed in
tiny bunches, and once I saw a late peach-tree in full pink bloom and an
old man hoeing the earth around it. He looked up as we galloped past,
saluted sullenly, and leaned on his hoe, looking after us.

Dorothy said he was a Palatine refugee and a rebel, like the majority of
Sir Lupus's tenants; and I gazed curiously at these fields and cabins
where gaunt men and gaunter women, laboring among their sprouting
vegetables, turned sun-dazzled eyes to watch us as we clattered by;
where ragged children, climbing on the stockades, called out to us in
little, shrill voices; where feeding cattle lifted sober heads to stare;
where lank, yellow dogs rushed out barking and snapping till a cut of
the whip sent them scurrying back.

Once a woman came to her gate and hailed us, asking if it was true that
the troops had been withdrawn from Johnstown and Kingsborough.

"Which troops?" I asked.

"Ours," began the woman, then checked herself, and shot a suspicious
glance at me.

"The Provincials are still at Johnstown and Kingsborough," said Dorothy,
gently.

A gleam of relief softened the woman's haggard features. Then her face
darkened again and she pointed at two barefooted children shrinking
against the fence.

"If my man and I were alone we would not be afraid of the Mohawks; but
these--"

She made a desperate gesture, and stood staring at the blue Mayfield
hills where, perhaps at that moment, painted Mohawk scouts were watching
the Sacandaga.

"If your men remain quiet, Mrs. Schell, you need fear neither rebel,
savage, nor Tory," said Dorothy. "The patroon will see that you have
ample protection."

Mrs. Schell gave her a helpless glance. "Did you not know that the
district scout-call has gone out?" she asked.

"Yes; but if the tenants of Sir Lupus obey it they do so at their
peril," replied Dorothy, gravely. "The militia scouts of this district
must not act hastily. Your husband would be mad to answer a call and
leave you here alone."

"What would you have him do?" muttered the woman.

"Do?" repeated Dorothy. "He can do one thing or the other--join his
regiment and take his family to the district fort, or stay at home and
care for you and the farm. These alarms are all wrong--your men are
either soldiers or farmers; they cannot be both unless they live close
enough to the forts. Tell Mr. Schell that Francy McCraw and his riders
are in the forest, and that the Brandt-Meester of Balston saw a Mohawk
smoke-signal on the mountain behind Mayfield."

The woman folded her bony arms in her apron, cast one tragic glance at
her children, then faced us again, hollow-eyed but undaunted.

"My man is with Stoner's scout," she said, with dull pride.

"Then you must go to the block-house," began Dorothy, but the woman
pointed to the fields, shaking her head.

"We shall build a block-house here," she said, stubbornly. "We cannot
leave our corn. We must eat, Mistress Varick. My man is too poor to be a
Provincial soldier, too brave to refuse a militia call--"

She choked, rubbed her eyes, and bent her stern gaze on the hills once
more. Presently we rode on, and, turning in my saddle, I saw her
standing as we had left her, gaunt, rigid, staring steadily at the
dreaded heights in the northwest.

As we galloped, cultivated fields and orchards became rarer; here and
there, it is true, some cabin stood on a half-cleared hill-side, and we
even passed one or two substantial houses on the flat ridge to the east,
but long, solid stretches of forest intervened, and presently we left
the highway and wheeled into a cool wood-road bordered on either side by
the forest.

"Here we find our first landmark," said Dorothy, drawing bridle.

A white triangle glimmered, cut in the bark of an enormous pine; and my
cousin rode up to the tree and patted the bark with her little hand. On
the triangle somebody had cut a V and painted it black.

"This is a boundary mark," said Dorothy. "The Mohawks claim the forest
to the east; ride around and you will see their sign."

I guided my horse around the huge, straight trunk. An oval blaze scarred
it and on the wood was painted a red wolf.

"It's the wolf-clan, Brant's own clan of the Mohawk nation," she called
out to me. "Follow me, cousin." And she dashed off down the wood-road, I
galloping behind, leaping windfalls, gullies, and the shallow forest
brooks that crossed our way. The road narrowed to a trodden trail; the
trail faded, marked at first by cut undergrowth, then only by the white
scars on the tree-trunks.

These my cousin followed, her horse at a canter, and I followed her,
halting now and again to verify the white triangle on the solid flank of
some forest giant, passing a sugar-bush with the shack still standing
and the black embers of the fire scattered, until we came to a
logging-road and turned into it, side by side. A well-defined path
crossed this road at right angles, and Dorothy pointed it out. "The
Iroquois trail," she said. "See how deeply it is worn--nearly ten inches
deep--where the Five Nations have trodden it for centuries. Over it
their hunting-parties pass, their scouts, their war-parties. It runs
from the Kennyetto to the Sacandaga and north over the hills to
the Canadas."

We halted and looked down the empty, trodden trail, stretching away
through the forest. Thousands and thousands of light, moccasined feet
had worn it deep and patted it hard as a sheep-path. On what mission
would the next Mohawk feet be speeding on that trail?

"Those people at Fonda's Bush had best move to Johnstown," said Dorothy.
"If the Mohawks strike, they will strike through here at Balston or
Saratoga, or at the half-dozen families left at Fonda's Bush, which some
of them call Broadalbin."

"Have these poor wretches no one to warn them?" I asked.

"Oh, they have been warned and warned, but they cling to their cabins as
cats cling to soft cushions. The Palatines seem paralyzed with fear, the
Dutch are too lazy to move in around the forts, the Scotch and English
too obstinate. Nobody can do anything for them--you heard what that
Schell woman said when I urged her to prudence."

I bent my eyes on the ominous trail; its very emptiness fascinated me,
and I dismounted and knelt to examine it where, near a dry, rotten log,
some fresh marks showed.

Behind me I heard Dorothy dismount, dropping to the ground lightly as a
tree-lynx; the next moment she laid her hand on my shoulder and bent
over where I was kneeling.

"Can you read me that sign?" she asked, mischievously.

"Something has rolled and squatted in the dry wood-dust--some bird, I
think."

"A good guess," she said; "a cock-partridge has dusted here; see those
bits of down? I say a cock-bird because I know that log to be a
drumming-log."

She raised herself and guided her horse along the trail, bright eyes
restlessly scanning ground and fringing underbrush.

"Deer passed here--one--two--three--the third a buck--a three-year old,"
she said, sinking her voice by instinct. "Yonder a tree-cat dug for a
wood-mouse; your lynx is ever hanging about a drumming-log."

I laid my hand on her arm and pointed to a fresh, green maple leaf lying
beside the trail.

"Ay," she murmured, "but it fell naturally, cousin. See; here it parted
from the stalk, clean as a poplar twig, leaving the shiny cup unbruised.
And nothing has passed here--this spider's web tells that, with a dead
moth dangling from it, dead these three days, from its brittle shell."

"I hear water," I said, and presently we came to it, where it hurried
darkling across the trail.

There were no human signs there; here a woodcock had peppered the mud
with little holes, probing for worms; there a raccoon had picked his
way; yonder a lynx had left the great padded mark of its foot, doubtless
watching for yonder mink nosing us from the bank of the still
pool below.

Silently we mounted and rode out of the still Mohawk country; and I was
not sorry to leave, for it seemed to me that there was something
unfriendly in the intense stillness--something baleful in the silence;
and I was glad presently to see an open road and a great tree marked
with Sir Lupus's mark, the sun shining on the white triangle and the
painted V.

Entering a slashing where the logging-road passed, we moved on, side by
side, talking in low tones. And my cousin taught me how to know these
Northern trees by bark and leaf; how to know the shrubs new to me, like
that strange plant whose root is like a human body and which the Chinese
value at its weight in gold; and the aromatic root used in beer, and the
bark of the sweet-birch whose twigs are golden-black.

Now, though the birds and many of the beasts and trees were familiar to
me in this Northern forest, yet I was constantly at fault, as I have
said. Plumage and leaf and fur puzzled me; our gray rice-bird here wore
a velvet livery of black and white and sang divinely, though with us he
is mute as a mullet; many squirrels were striped with black and white;
no rosy lichen glimmered on the tree-trunks; no pink-stemmed pines
softened sombre forest depths; no great tiger-striped butterflies told
me that the wild orange was growing near at hand; no whirring,
olive-tinted moth signalled the hidden presence of the oleander. But I
saw everywhere unfamiliar winged things, I heard unfamiliar bird-notes;
new colors perplexed me, new shapes, nay, the very soil smelled foreign,
and the water tasted savorless as the mist of pine barrens in February.

Still, my Maker had set eyes in my head and given me a nose to sniff
with; and I was learning every moment, tasting, smelling, touching,
listening, asking questions unashamed; and my cousin Dorothy seemed
never to tire in aiding me, nor did her eager delight and sympathy
abate one jot.

Dressed in full deer-skin as was I, she rode her horse astride with a
grace as perfect as it was unstudied and unconscious, neither affecting
the slothful carriage of our Southern saddle-masters nor the dragoons'
rigid seat, but sat at ease, hollow-backed, loose-thighed, free-reined
and free-stirruped.

Her hair, gathered into a golden club at the nape of the neck, glittered
in the sun, her eyes deepened like the violet depths of mid-heaven.
Already the sun had lent her a delicate, creamy mask, golden on her
temples where the hair grew paler; and I thought I had never seen such
wholesome sweetness and beauty in any living being.

We now rode through a vast flat land of willows, headed due north once
more, and I saw a little river which twisted a hundred times upon itself
like a stricken snake, winding its shimmering coils out and in through
woodland, willow-flat, and reedy marsh.

"The Kennyetto," said Dorothy, "flowing out of the great Vlaie to empty
its waters close to its source after a circle of half a hundred miles.
Yonder lies the Vlaie--it is that immense flat country of lake and marsh
and forest which is wedged in just south of the mountain-gap where the
last of the Adirondacks split into the Mayfield hills and the long, low
spurs rolling away to the southeast. Sir William Johnson had a lodge
there at Summer-house Point. Since his death Sir George Covert has
leased it from Sir John. That is our trysting-place."

To hear Sir George's name now vaguely disturbed me, yet I could not
think why, for I admired and liked him. But at the bare mention of his
name a dull uneasiness came over me and I turned impatiently to my
cousin as though the irritation had come from her and she must
explain it.

"What is it?" she inquired, faintly smiling.

"I asked no question," I muttered.

"I thought you meant to speak, cousin."

I had meant to say something. I did not know what.

"You seem to know when I am about to speak," I said; "that is twice you
have responded to my unasked questions."

"I know it," she said, surprised and a trifle perplexed. "I seem to hear
you when you are mute, and I turn to find you looking at me, as though
you had asked me something."

We rode on, thoughtful, silent, aware of a new and wordless intimacy.

"It is pleasant to be with you," she said at last. "I have never before
found untroubled contentment save when I am alone.... Everything that
you see and think of on this ride I seem to see and think of, too, and
know that you are observing with the same delight that I feel.... Nor
does anything in the world disturb my happiness. Nor do you vex me with
silence when I would have you speak; nor with speech when I ride
dreaming--as I do, cousin, for hours and hours--not sadly, but in the
sweetest peace--"

Her voice died out like a June breeze; our horses, ear to ear moved on
slowly in the fragrant silence.

"To ride ... forever ... together," she mused, "looking with perfect
content on all the world.... I teaching you, or you me; ... it's all one
for the delight it gives to be alive and young.... And no trouble to
await us, ... nothing malicious to do a harm to any living thing.... I
could renounce Heaven for that.... Could you?"

"Yes.... For less."

"I know I ask too much; grief makes us purer, fitting us for the company
of blessed souls. They say that even war may be a holy thing--though we
are commanded otherwise.... Cousin, at moments a demon rises in me and I
desire some forbidden thing so ardently, so passionately, that it seems
as if I could fight a path through paradise itself to gain what I
desire.... Do you feel so?"

"Yes."

"Is it not consuming--terrible to be so shaken?... Yet I never gain my
desire, for there in my path my own self rises to confront me, blocking
my way. And I can never pass--never.... Once, in winter, our agent, Mr.
Fonda, came driving a trained caribou to a sledge. A sweet, gentle
thing, with dark, mild eyes, and I was mad to drive it--mad, cousin! But
Sir Lupus learned that it had trodden and gored a man, and put me on my
honor not to drive it. And all day Sir Lupus was away at Kingsborough
for his rents and I free to drive the sledge, ... and I was mad to do
it--and could not. And the pretty beast stabled with our horses, and
every day I might have driven it.... I never did.... It hurts yet,
cousin.... How strange is it that to us the single word, 'honor,' blocks
the road and makes the King's own highway no thorough-fare forever!"

She gathered bridle nervously, and we launched our horses through a
willow fringe and away over a soft, sandy intervale, riding knee to knee
till the wind whistled in our ears and the sand rose fountain high at
every stride of our bounding horses.

"Ah!" she sighed, drawing bridle. "That clears the heart of silly
troubles. Was it not glorious? Like a plunge to the throat in an
icy pool!"

Her face, radiant, transfigured, was turned to the north, where,
glittering under the westward sun, the sunny waters of the Vlaie
sparkled between green reeds and rushes. Beyond, smoky blue mountains
tumbled into two uneven walls, spread southeast and southwest, flanking
the flat valley of the Vlaie.

Thousands of blackbirds chattered and croaked and trilled and whistled
in the reeds, flitting upward, with a flash of scarlet on their wings;
hovering, dropping again amid a ceaseless chorus from the half-hidden
flock. Over the marshes slow hawks sailed, rose, wheeled, and fell; the
gray ducks, whose wings bear purple diamond-squares, quacked in the
tussock ponds, guarded by their sentinels, the tall, blue herons.
Everywhere the earth was sheeted with marsh-marigolds and violets.

Across the distant grassy flat two deer moved, grazing. We rode to the
east, skirting the marshes, following a trail made by cattle, until
beyond the flats we saw the green roof of the pleasure-house which Sir
William Johnson had built for himself. Our ride together was
nearly ended.

As at the same thought we tightened bridle and looked at each other
gravely.

"All rides end," I said.

"Ay, like happiness."

"Both may be renewed."

"Until they end again."

"Until they end forever."

She clasped her bare hands on her horse's neck, sitting with bent head
as though lost in sombre memories.

"What ends forever might endure forever," I said.

"Not our rides together," she murmured. "You must return to the South
one day. I must wed.... Where shall we be this day a year hence?"

"Very far apart, cousin."

"Will you remember this ride?"

"Yes," I said, troubled.

"I will, too.... And I shall wonder what you are doing."

"And I shall think of you," I said, soberly.

"Will you write?"

"Yes. Will you?"

"Yes."

Silence fell between us like a shadow; then:

"Yonder rides Sir George Covert," she said, listlessly.

I saw him dismounting before his door, but said nothing.

"Shall we move forward?" she asked, but did not stir a finger towards
the bridle lying on her horse's neck.

Another silence; and, impatiently:

"I cannot bear to have you go," she said; "we are perfectly contented
together--and I wish you to know all the thoughts I have touching on the
world and on people. I cannot tell them to my father, nor to Ruyven--and
Cecile is too young--"

"There is Sir George," I said.

"He! Why, I should never think of telling him of these thoughts that
please or trouble or torment me!" she said, in frank surprise. "He
neither cares for the things you care for nor thinks about them
at all."

"Perhaps he does. Ask him."

"I have. He smiles and says nothing. I am afraid to tax his courtesy
with babble of beast and bird and leaf and flower; and why one man is
rich and another poor; and whether it is right that men should hold
slaves; and why our Lord permits evil, having the power to end it for
all time. I should like to know all these things," she said, earnestly.

"But I do not know them, Dorothy."

"Still, you think about them, and so do I. Sir Lupus says you have
liberated your Greeks and sent them back. I want to know why. Then, too,
though neither you nor I can know our Lord's purpose in enduring the
evil that Satan plans, it is pleasant, I think, to ask each other."

"To think together," I said, sadly.

"Yes; that is it. Is it not a pleasure?"

"Yes, Dorothy."

"It does not matter that we fail to learn; it is the happiness in
knowing that the other also cares to know, the delight in seaching for
reason together. Cousin, I have so longed to say this to somebody; and
until you came I never believed it possible.... I wish we were brother
and sister! I wish you were Cecile, and I could be with you all day and
all night.... At night, half asleep, I think of wonderful things to talk
about, but I forget them by morning. Do you?"

"Yes, cousin."

"It is strange we are so alike!" she said, staring at me thoughtfully.



IX

HIDDEN FIRE

After a few moments' silence we moved forward towards the
pleasure-house, and we had scarcely started when down the road, from the
north, came the patroon riding a powerful black horse, attended by old
Cato mounted on a raw-boned hunter, and by one Peter Van Horn, the
district Brandt-Meester, or fire-warden. As they halted at Sir George
Covert's door, we rode up to join them at a gallop, and the patroon,
seeing us far off, waved his hat at us in evident good humor.

"Not a landmark missing!" he shouted, "and my signs all witnessed for
record by Peter and Cato! How do the southwest landmarks stand?"

"The tenth pine is blasted by lightning," said Dorothy, walking her
beautiful gray to Sir Lupus's side.

"Pooh! We've a dozen years to change trees," said Sir Lupus, in great
content. "All's well everywhere, save at the Fish-House near the
Sacandaga ford, where some impudent rascal says he saw smoke on the
hills. He's doubtless a liar. Where's Sir George?"

Sir George sauntered forth from the doorway where he had been standing,
and begged us to dismount, but the patroon declined, saying that we had
far to ride ere sundown, and that one of us should go around by
Broadalbin. However, Dorothy and I slipped from our saddles to stretch
our legs while a servant brought stirrup-cups and Sir George gathered a
spray of late lilac which my cousin fastened to her leather belt.

"Tory lilacs," said Sir George, slyly; "these bushes came from cuttings
of those Sir William planted at Johnson Hall."

"If Sir William planted them, a rebel may wear them," replied Dorothy,
gayly.

"Ay, it's that whelp, Sir John, who has marred what the great baronet
left as his monument," growled old Peter Van Horn.

"That's treason!" snapped the patroon. "Stop it. I won't have politics
talked in my presence, no! Dammy, Peter, hold your tongue, sir!"

Dorothy, wearing the lilac spray, vaulted lightly into her saddle, and I
mounted my mare. Stirrup-cups were filled and passed up to us, and we
drained a cooled measure of spiced claret to the master of the
pleasure-house, who pledged us gracefully in return, and then stood by
Dorothy's horse, chatting and laughing until, at a sign from Sir Lupus,
Cato sounded "Afoot!" on his curly hunting-horn, and the patroon wheeled
his big horse out into the road, with a whip-salute to our host.

"Dine with us to-night!" he bawled, without turning his fat head or
waiting for a reply, and hammered away in a torrent of dust. Sir George
glanced wistfully at Dorothy.

"There's a district officer-call gone out," he said. "Some of the
Palatine officers desire my presence. I cannot refuse. So ... it is
good-bye for a week."

"Are you a militia officer?" I asked, curiously.

"Yes," he said, with a humorous grimace. "May I say that you also are a
candidate?"

Dorothy turned squarely in her saddle and looked me in the eyes.

"At the district's service, Sir George," I said, lightly.

"Ha! That is well done, Ormond!" he exclaimed. "Nothing yet to
inconvenience you, but our Governor Clinton may send you a billet doux
from Albany before May ends and June begins--if this periwigged beau,
St. Leger, strolls out to ogle Stanwix--"

Dorothy turned her horse sharply, saluted Sir George, and galloped away
towards her father, who had halted at the cross-roads to wait for us.

"Good-bye, Sir George," I said, offering my hand. He took it in a firm,
steady clasp.

"A safe journey, Ormond. I trust fortune may see fit to throw us
together in this coming campaign."

I bowed, turned bridle, and cantered off, leaving him standing in the
road before his gayly painted pleasure-house, an empty wine-cup in
his hand.

"Damnation, George!" bawled Sir Lupus, as I rode up, "have we all day to
stand nosing one another and trading gossip! Some of us must ride by
Fonda's Bush, or Broadalbin, whatever the Scotch loons call it; and I'll
say plainly that I have no stomach for it; I want my dinner!"

"It will give me pleasure to go," said I, "but I require a guide."

"Peter shall ride with you," began Sir Lupus; but Dorothy broke in,
impatiently:

"He need not. I shall guide Mr. Ormond to Broadalbin."

"Oh no, you won't!" snapped the patroon; "you've done enough of
forest-running for one day. Peter, pilot Mr. Ormond to the Bush."

And he galloped on ahead, followed by Cato and Peter; so that, by reason
of their dust, which we did not choose to choke in, Dorothy and I
slackened our pace and fell behind.

"Do you know why you are to pass by Broadalbin?" she asked, presently.

I said I did not.

"Folk at the Fish-House saw smoke on the Mayfield hills an hour since.
That is twice in three days!"

"Well," said I, "what of that?"

"It is best that the Broadalbin settlement should hear of it."

"Do you mean that it may have been an Indian signal?"

"It may have been. I did not see it--the forest cut our view."

The westering sun, shining over the Mayfield hills, turned the dust to
golden fog. Through it Cato's red coat glimmered, and the hunting-horn,
curving up over his bent back, struck out streams of blinding sparks.
Brass buttons on the patroon's broad coat-skirts twinkled like yellow
stars, and the spurs flashed on his quarter-gaiters as he pounded along
at a solid hand-gallop, hat crammed over his fat ears, pig-tail
a-bristle, and the blue coat on his enormous body white with dust.

In the renewed melody of the song-birds there was a hint of approaching
evening; shadows lengthened; the sunlight grew redder on the dusty road.

"The Broadalbin trail swings into the forest just ahead," said Dorothy,
pointing with her whip-stock. "See, there where they are drawing bridle.
But I mean to ride with you, nevertheless.... And I'll do it!"

The patroon was waiting for us when we came to the weather-beaten
finger-post:

     "FONDA'S BUSH
     4 MILES."

And Peter Van Horn had already ridden into the broad, soft wood-road,
when Dorothy, swinging her horse past him at a gallop, cried out, "I
want to go with them! Please let me!" And was gone like a deer, tearing
away down the leafy trail.

"Come back!" roared Sir Lupus, standing straight up in his ponderous
stirrups. "Come back, you little vixen! Am I to be obeyed, or am I not?
Baggage! Undutiful tree-cat! Dammy, she's off!"

He looked at me and smote his fat thigh with open hand.

"Did you ever see the like of her!" he chuckled, in his pride. "She's a
Dutch Varick for obstinacy, but the rest is Ormond--all Ormond. Ride on,
George, and tell those rebel fools at Fonda's Bush that they should be
hunting cover in the forts if folk at the Fish-House read that smoke
aright. Follow the Brandt-Meester if Dorothy slips you, and tell her
I'll birch her, big as she is, if she's not home by the new moon rise."

Then he dragged his hat over his mottled ears, grasped the bridle and
galloped on, followed by old Cato and his red coat and curly horn.

I had ridden a cautious mile on the dim, leafy trail ere I picked up Van
Horn, only to quit him. I had ridden full three before I caught sight of
Dorothy, sitting her gray horse, head at gaze in my direction.

"What in the world set you tearing off through the forest like that?" I
asked, laughing.

She turned her horse and we walked on, side by side.

"I wished to come," she said, simply. "The pleasures of this day must
end only with the night. Besides, I was burning to ask you if it is true
that you mean to stay here and serve with our militia?"

"I mean to stay," I said, slowly.

"And serve?"

"If they desire it."

"Why?" she asked, raising her bright eyes.

I thought a moment, then said:

"I have decided to resist our King's soldiers."

"But why here?" she repeated, clear eyes still on mine. "Tell me the
truth."

"I think it is because you are here," I said, soberly.

The loveliest smile parted her lips.

"I hoped you would say that.... Do I please you? Listen, cousin: I have
a mad impulse to follow you--to be hindered rages me beyond
endurance--as when Sir Lupus called me back. For, within the past hour
the strangest fancy has possessed me that we have little time left to be
together; that I should not let one moment slip to enjoy you."

"Foolish prophetess," I said, striving to laugh.

"A prophetess?" she repeated under her breath. And, as we rode on
through the forest dusk, her head drooped thoughtfully, shaded by her
loosened hair. At last she looked up dreamily, musing aloud:

"No prophetess, cousin; only a child, nerveless and over-fretted with
too much pleasure, tired out with excitement, having played too hard. I
do not know quite how I should conduct. I am unaccustomed to comrades
like you, cousin; and, in the untasted delights of such companionship,
have run wild till my head swims wi' the humming thoughts you stir in
me, and I long for a dark, still room and a bed to lie on, and think of
this day's pleasures."

After a silence, broken only by our horses treading the moist earth: "I
have been starving for this companionship.... I was parched!... Cousin,
have you let me drink too deeply? Have you been too kind? Why am I in
this new terror lest you--lest you tire of me and my silly speech? Oh, I
know my thoughts have been too long pent! I could talk to you forever! I
could ride with you till I died! I am like a caged thing loosed, I tell
you--for I may tell you, may I not, cousin?"

"Tell me all you think, Dorothy."

"I could tell you all--everything! I never had a thought that I do not
desire you to know, ... save one.... And that I do desire to tell
you ... but cannot.... Cousin, why did you name your mare Isene?"

"An Indian girl in Florida bore that name; the Seminoles called her
Issena."

"And so you named your mare from her?"

"Yes."

"Was she your friend--that you named your mare from her?"

"She lived a century ago--a princess. She wedded with a Huguenot."

"Oh," said Dorothy, "I thought she was perhaps your sweetheart."

"I have none."

"You never had one?"

"No."

"Why?"

I turned in my saddle.

"Why have you never had a gallant?"

"Oh, that is not the same. Men fall in love--or protest as much. And at
wine they boast of their good fortunes, swearing each that his mistress
is the fairest, and bragging till I yawn to listen.... And yet you say
you never had a sweetheart?"

"Neither titled nor untitled, cousin. And, if I had, at home we never
speak of it, deeming it a breach of honor."

"Why?"

"For shame, I suppose."

"Is it shameless to speak as I do?" she asked.

"Not to me, Dorothy. I wish you might be spared all that unlicensed
gossip that you hear at table--not that it could harm such innocence as
yours! For, on my honor, I never knew a woman such as you, nor a maid
so nobly fashioned!"

I stopped, meeting her wide eyes.

"Say it," she murmured. "It is happiness to hear you."

"Then hear me," I said, slowly. "Loyalty, devotion, tenderness, all are
your due; not alone for the fair body that holds your soul imprisoned,
but for the pure tenant that dwells in it so sweetly behind the blue
windows of your eyes! Dorothy! Dorothy! Have I said too much? Yet I beg
that you remember it, lest you forget me when I have gone from you....
And say to Sir George that I said it.... Tell him after you are wedded,
and say that all men envy him, yet wish him well. For the day he weds he
weds the noblest woman in all the confines of this earth!"

Dazed, she stared at me through the fading light; and I saw her eyes all
wet in the shadow of her tangled hair and the pulse beating in
her throat.

"You are so good--so pitiful," she said; "and I cannot even find the
words to tell you of those deep thoughts you stir in me--to tell you how
sweetly you use me--"

"Tell me no more," I stammered, all a-quiver at her voice. She shrank
back as at a blow, and I, head swimming, frighted, penitent, caught her
small hand in mine and drew her nearer; nor could I speak for the loud
beating of my heart.

"What is it?" she murmured. "Have I pained you that you tremble so? Look
at me, cousin. I can scarce see you in the dusk. Have I hurt you? I love
you dearly."

Her horse moved nearer, our knees touched. In the forest darkness I
found I held her waist imprisoned, and her arms were heavy on my
shoulders. Then her lips yielded and her arms tightened around my neck,
and that swift embrace in the swimming darkness kindled in me a flame
that has never died--that shall live when this poor body crumbles into
dust, lighting my soul through its last dark pilgrimage.

As for her, she sat up in her saddle with a strange little laugh, still
holding to my hand. "Oh, you are divine in all you lead me to," she
whispered. "Never, never have I known delight in a kiss; and I have been
kissed, too, willing and against my will. But you leave me breathing my
heart out and all a-tremble with a tenderness for you--no, not again,
cousin, not yet."

Then slowly the full wretchedness of guilt burned me, bone and soul, and
what I had done seemed a black evil to a maid betrothed, and to the man
whose wine had quenched my thirst an hour since.

Something of my thoughts she may have read in my bent head and face
averted, for she leaned forward in her saddle, and drawing me by the
arm, turned me partly towards her.

"What troubles you?" she said, anxiously.

"My treason to Sir George."

"What treason?" she said, amazed.

"That I--caressed you."

She laughed outright.

"Am I not free-until I wed? Do you imagine I should have signed my
liberty away to please Sir George? Why, cousin, if I may not caress whom
I choose and find a pleasure in the way you use me, I am no better than
the winter log he buys to toast his shins at!"

Then she grew angry in her impatience, slapping her bridle down to range
her horse up closer to mine.

"Am I not to wed him?" she said. "Is not that enough? And I told him so,
flatly, I warrant you, when Captain Campbell kissed me on the
porch--which maddened me, for he was not to my fancy--but Sir George
saw him and there was like to be a silly scene until I made it plain
that I would endure no bonds before I wore a wedding-ring!" She laughed
deliciously. "I think he understands now that I am not yoked until I
bend my neck. And until I bend it I am free. So if I please you, kiss
me, ... but leave me a little breath to draw, cousin, ... and a saddle
to cling to.... Now loose me--for the forest ends!"

[Illustration: "NOW LOOSE ME--FOR THE FOREST ENDS!".]

A faint red light grew in the woodland gloom; a rushing noise like
swiftly flowing water filled my ears--or was it the blood that surged
singing through my heart?

"Broadalbin Bush," she murmured, clearing her eyes of the clouded hair
and feeling for her stirrups with small, moccasined toes. "Hark! Now we
hear the Kennyetto roaring below the hill. See, cousin, it is sunset,
the west blazes, all heaven is afire! Ah! what sorcery has turned the
world to paradise--riding this day with you?"

She turned in her saddle with an exquisite gesture, pressed her
outstretched hand against my lips, then, gathering bridle, launched her
horse straight through the underbrush, out into a pasture where, across
a naked hill, a few log-houses reddened in the sunset.

There hung in the air a smell of sweetbrier as we drew bridle before a
cabin under the hill. I leaned over and plucked a handful of the leaves,
bruising them in my palm to savor the spicy perfume.

A man came to the door of the cabin and stared at us; a tap-room
sluggard, a-sunning on the west fence-rail, chewed his cud solemnly and
watched us with watery eyes.

"Andrew Bowman, have you seen aught to fright folk on the mountain?"
asked Dorothy, gravely.

The man in the doorway shook his head. From the cabins near by a few
men and women trooped out into the road and hastened towards us. One of
the houses bore a bush, and I saw two men peering at us through the open
window, pewters in hand.

"Good people," said Dorothy, quietly, "the patroon sends you word of a
strange smoke seen this day in the hills."

"There's smoke there now," I said, pointing into the sunset.

At that moment Peter Van Horn galloped up, halted, and turned his head,
following the direction of my outstretched arm. Others came, blinking
into the ruddy evening glow, craning their necks to see, and from the
wretched tavern a lank lout stumbled forth, rifle shouldered, pewter
a-slop, to learn the news that had brought us hither at that hour.

"It is mist," said a woman; but her voice trembled as she said it.

"It is smoke," growled Van Horn. "Read it, you who can."

Whereat the fellow in the tavern window fell a-laughing and called down
to his companion: "Francy McCraw! Francy McCraw! The Brandt-Meester says
a Mohawk fire burns in the north!"

"I hear him," cried McCraw, draining his pewter.

Dorothy turned sharply. "Oh, is that you, McCraw? What brings you to the
Bush?"

The lank fellow turned his wild, blue eyes on her, then gazed at the
smoke. Some of the men scowled at him.

"Is that smoke?" I asked, sharply. "Answer me, McCraw!"

"A canna' deny it," he said, with a mad chuckle.

"Is it Indian smoke?" demanded Van Horn.

"Aweel," he replied, craning his skinny neck and cocking his head
impudently--"aweel, a'll admit that, too. It's Indian smoke; a canna
deny it, no."

"Is it a Mohawk signal?" I asked, bluntly.

At which he burst out into a crowing laugh.

"What does he say?" called out the man from the tavern. "What does he
say, Francy McCraw?"

"He says it maun be Mohawk smoke, Danny Redstock."

"And what if it is?" blustered Redstock, shouldering his way to McCraw,
rifle in hand. "Keep your black looks for your neighbors, Andrew Bowman.
What have we to do with your Mohawk fires?"

"Herman Salisbury!" cried Bowman to a neighbor, "do you hear what this
Tory renegade says?"

"Quiet! Quiet, there," said Redstock, swaggering out into the road.
"Francy McCraw, our good neighbors are woful perplexed by that thread o'
birch smoke yonder."

"Then tell the feckless fools tae watch it!" screamed McCraw, seizing
his rifle and menacing the little throng of men and women who had closed
swiftly in on him. "Hands off me, Johnny Putnam--back, for your life,
Charley Cady! Ay, stare at the smoke till ye're eyes drop frae th'
sockets! But no; there's some foulk 'ill tak' nae warnin'!"

He backed off down the road, followed by Redstock, rifles cocked.

"An' ye'll bear me out," he shouted, "that there's them wha' hear these
words now shall meet their weirds ere a hunter's moon is wasted!"

He laughed his insane laugh and, throwing his rifle over his shoulder,
halted, facing us.

"Hae ye no heard o' Catrine Montour?" he jeered. "She'll come in the
night, Andrew Bowman! Losh, mon, but she's a grewsome carlin', wi' the
witch-locks hangin' to her neck an' her twa een blazin'!"

"You drive us out to-night!" shouted Redstock. "We'll remember it when
Brant is in the hills!"

"The wolf-yelp! Clan o' the wolf!" screamed McCraw. "Woe! Woe to
Broadalbane! 'Tis the pibroch o' Glencoe shall wake ye to the woods
afire! Be warned! Be warned, for ye stand knee-deep in ye're shrouds!"

In the ruddy dusk their dark forms turned to shadows and were gone.

Van Horn stirred in his saddle, then shook his shoulders as though
freeing them from a weight.

"Now you have it, you Broadalbin men," he said, grimly. "Go to the forts
while there's time."

In the darkness around us children began to whimper; a woman broke down,
sobbing.

"Silence!" cried Bowman, sternly. And to Dorothy, who sat quietly on her
horse beside him, "Say to the patroon that we know our enemies. And you,
Peter Van Horn, on whichever side you stand, we men of the Bush thank
you and this young lady for your coming."

And that was all. In silence we wheeled our horses northward, Van Horn
riding ahead, and passed out of that dim hamlet which lay already in the
shadows of an unknown terror.

Behind us, as we looked back, one or two candles flickered in cabin
windows, pitiful, dim lights in the vast, dark ocean of the forest.
Above us the stars grew clearer. A vesper-sparrow sang its pensive song.
Tranquil, sweet, the serene notes floated into silver echoes
never-ending, till it seemed as if the starlight all around us quivered
into song.

I touched Dorothy, riding beside me, white as a spirit in the pale
radiance, and she turned her sweet, fearless face to mine.

"There is a sound," I whispered, "very far away."

She laid her hand in mine and drew bridle, listening. Van Horn, too, had
halted.

Far in the forest the sound stirred the silence; soft, stealthy, nearer,
nearer, till it grew into a patter. Suddenly Van Horn's horse reared.

"It's there! it's there!" he cried, hoarsely, as our horses swung round
in terror.

"Look!" muttered Dorothy.

Then a thing occurred that stopped my heart's blood. For straight
through the forest came running a dark shape, a squattering thing that
passed us ere we could draw breath to shriek; animal, human, or spirit,
I knew not, but it ran on, thuddy-thud, thuddy-thud! and we struggling
with our frantic horses to master them ere they dashed us lifeless among
the trees.

"Jesu!" gasped Van Horn, dragging his powerful horse back into the road.
"Can you make aught o' yonder fearsome thing, like a wart-toad
scrabbling on two legs?"

Dorothy, teeth set, drove her heels into her gray's ribs and forced him
to where my mare stood all a-quiver.

"It's a thing from hell," panted Van Horn, fighting knee and wrist with
his roan. "My nag shies at neither bear nor wolf! Look at him now!"

"Nor mine at anything save a savage," said I, fearfully peering behind
me while my mare trembled under me.

"I think we have seen a savage, that is all," fell Dorothy's calm voice.
"I think we have seen Catrine Montour."

At the name, Van Horn swore steadily.

"If that be the witch Montour, she runs like a clansman with the fiery
cross," I said, shuddering.

"And that is like to be her business," muttered Van Horn. "The painted
forest-men are in the hills, and if Senecas, Cayugas, and Onondagas do
not know it this night, it will be no fault of Catrine Montour."

"Ride on, Peter," said Dorothy, and checked her horse till my mare came
abreast.

"Are you afraid?" I whispered.

"Afraid? No!" she said, astonished. "What should arouse fear in me?"

"Your common-sense!" I said, impatiently, irritated to rudeness by the
shocking and unearthly spectacle which had nigh unnerved me. But she
answered very sweetly:

"If I fear nothing, it is because there is nothing that I know of in the
world to fright me. I remember," she added, gravely, "'A thousand shall
fall at my side and ten thousand at my right hand. And it shall not come
nigh me.' How can I fear, believing that?"

She leaned from her saddle and I saw her eyes searching my face in the
darkness.

"Silly," she said, tenderly, "I have no fear save that you should prove
unkind."

"Then give yourself to me, Dorothy," I said, holding her imprisoned.

"How can I? You have me."

"I mean forever."

"But I have."

"I mean in wedlock!" I whispered, fiercely.

"How can I, silly--I am promised!"

"Can I not stir you to love me?" I said.

"To love you?... Better than I do?... You may try."

"Then wed me!"

"If I were wed to you would I love you better than I do?" she asked.

"Dorothy, Dorothy," I begged, holding her fast, "wed me; I love you."

She swayed back into her saddle, breaking my clasp.

"You know I cannot," she said.... Then, almost tenderly: "Do you truly
desire it? It is so dear to hear you say it--and I have heard the words
often enough, too, but never as you say them.... Had you asked me in
December, ere I was in honor bound.... But I am promised; ... only a
word, but it holds me like a chain.... Dear lad, forget it.... Use me
kindly.... Teach me to love, ... an unresisting pupil, ... for all life
is too short for me to learn in, ... alas!... God guard us both from
love's unhappiness and grant us only its sweetness--which you have
taught me; to which I am--I am awaking, ... after all these years, ...
after all these years without you.

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps it were kinder to let me sleep.... I am but half awake to love.

       *       *       *       *       *

Is it best to wake me, after all? Is it too late?... Draw bridle in the
starlight. Look at me.... It is too late, for I shall never
sleep again."



X

TWO LESSONS

For two whole days I did not see my cousin Dorothy, she lying abed with
hot and aching head, and the blinds drawn to keep out all light. So I
had time to consider what we had said and done, and to what we stood
committed.

Yet, with time heavy on my hands and full leisure to think, I could make
nothing of those swift, fevered hours together, nor what had happened to
us that the last moments should have found us in each other's arms, her
tear-stained eyes closed, her lips crushed to mine. For, within that
same hour, at table, she told Sir Lupus to my very face that she desired
to wed Sir George as soon as might be, and would be content with nothing
save that Sir Lupus despatch a messenger to the pleasure house, bidding
Sir George dispose of his affairs so that the marriage fall within the
first three days of June.

I could not doubt my own ears, yet could scarce credit my shocked senses
to hear her; and I had sat there, now hot with anger, now in cold
amazement; not touching food save with an effort that cost me all my
self-command.

As for Sir Lupus, his astonishment and delight disgusted me, for he fell
a-blubbering in his joy, loading his daughter with caresses, breaking
out into praises of her, lauding above all her filial gratitude and her
constancy to Sir George, whom he also larded and smeared with
compliments till his eulogium, buttered all too thick for my weakened
stomach, drove me from the table to pace the dark porch and strive to
reconcile all these warring memories a-battle in my swimming brain.

What demon possessed her to throw away time, when time was our most
precious ally, our only hope! With time--if she truly loved me--what
might not be done? And here, too, was another ally swiftly coming to our
aid on Time's own wings--the war!--whose far breath already fanned the
Mohawk smoke on the northern hills! And still another friendly ally
stood to aid us--absence! For, with Sir George away, plunged into new
scenes, new hopes, new ambitions, he might well change in his
affections. An officer, and a successful one, rising higher every day in
the esteem of his countrymen, should find all paths open, all doors
unlocked, and a gracious welcome among those great folk of New York
city, whose princely mode of living might not only be justified, but
even titled under a new regime and a new monarchy.

These were the half-formed, maddened thoughts that went a-racing through
my mind as I paced the porch that night; and I think they were, perhaps,
the most unworthy thoughts that ever tempted me. For I hated Sir George
and wished him a quick flight to immortality unless he changed in his
desire for wedlock with my cousin.

Gnawing my lips in growing rage I saw the messenger for the pleasure
house mount and gallop out of the stockade, and I wished him evil chance
and a fall to dash his senses out ere he rode up with his cursed message
to Sir George's door.

Passion blinded and deafened me to all whispers of decency; conscience
lay stunned within me, and I think I know now what black obsession
drives men's bodies into murder and their souls to punishments eternal.

Quivering from head to heel, now hot, now cold, and strangling with the
fierce desire for her whom I was losing more hopelessly every moment, I
started aimlessly through the starlight, pacing the stockade like a
caged beast, and I thought my swelling heart would choke me if it broke
not to ease my breath.

So this was love! A ghastly thing, God wot, to transform an honest man,
changing and twisting right and wrong until the threads of decency and
duty hung too hopelessly entangled for him to follow or untwine. Only
one thing could I see or understand: I desired her whom I loved and was
now fast losing forever.

Chance and circumstance had enmeshed me; in vain I struggled in the net
of fate, bruised, stunned, confused with grief and this new fire of
passion which had flashed up around me until I had inhaled the flames
and must forever bear their scars within as long as my seared heart
could pulse.

As I stood there under the dim trees, dumb, miserable, straining my ears
for the messenger's return, came my cousin Dorothy in the pale, flowered
gown she wore at supper, and ere she perceived me I saw her searching
for me, treading the new grass without a sound, one hand pressed to her
parted lips.

When she saw me she stood still, and her hands fell loosely to her side.

"Cousin," she said, in a faint voice.

And, as I did not answer, she stepped nearer till I could see her blue
eyes searching mine.

"What have you done!" I cried, harshly.

"I do not know," she said.

"I know," I retorted, fiercely. "Time was all we had--a few poor
hours--a day or two together. And with time there was chance, and with
chance, hope. You have killed all three!"

"No; ... there was no chance; there is no longer any time; there never
was any hope."

"There was hope!" I said, bitterly.

"No, there was none," she murmured.

"Then why did you tell me that you were free till the yoke locked you to
him? Why did you desire to love? Why did you bid me teach you? Why did
you consent to my lips, my arms? Why did you awake me?"

"God knows," she said, faintly.

"Is that your defence?" I asked. "Have you no defence?"

"None.... I had never loved.... I found you kind and I had known no man
like you.... Every moment with you entranced me till, ... I don't know
why, ... that sweet madness came upon ... us ... which can never come
again--which must never come.... Forgive me. I did not understand. Love
was a word to me."

"Dorothy, Dorothy, what have I done!" I stammered.

"Not you, but I, ... and now it is plain to me why, unwedded, I stand
yoked together with my honor, and you stand apart, fettered to yours....
We have shaken our chains in play, the links still hold firm and bright;
but if we break them, then, as they snap, our honor dies forever. For
what I have done in idle ignorance forgive me, and leave me to my
penance, ... which must last for all my life, cousin.... And you will
forget.... Hush! dearest lad, and let me speak. Well, then I will say
that I pray you may forget! Well, then I will not say that to grieve
you.... I wish you to remember--yet not know the pain that I--"

"Dorothy, Dorothy, do you still love me?"

"Oh, I do love you!... No, no! I ask you to spare me even the touch of
your hand! I ask it, I beg you to spare me! I implore--Be a shield to
me! Aid me, cousin. I ask it for the Ormond honor and for the honor of
the roof that shelters us both!... Now do you understand?... Oh, I
knew you to be all that I adore and worship!

       *       *       *       *       *

Our fault was in our ignorance. How could we know of that hidden fire
within us, stirring its chilled embers in all innocence until the flames
flashed out and clothed us both in glory, cousin? Heed me, lest it turn
to flames of hell!

       *       *       *       *       *

And now, dear lad, lest you should deem me mad to cut short the happy
time we had to hope for, I must tell you what I have never told before.
All that we have in all the world is by charity of Sir George. He stood
in the breach when the Cosby heirs made ready to foreclose on father; he
held off the Van Rensselaers; he threw the sop to Billy Livingston and
to that great villain, Klock. To-day, unsecured, his loans to my father,
still unpaid, have nigh beggared him. And the little he has he is about
to risk in this war whose tides are creeping on us through this
very night.

       *       *       *       *       *

And when he honored me by asking me in marriage, I, knowing all this,
knowing all his goodness and his generosity--though he was not aware I
knew it--I was thankful to say yes--deeming it little enough to please
him--and I not knowing what love meant--"

Her soft voice broke; she laid her hands on her eyes, and stood so,
speaking blindly. "What can I do, cousin? What can I do? Tell me! I love
you. Tell me, use me kindly; teach me to do right and keep my honor
bright as you could desire it were I to be your wife!"

It was that appeal, I think, that brought me back through the distorted
shadows of my passion; through the dark pit of envy, past snares of
jealousy and malice, and the traps and pitfalls dug by Satan, safe to
the trembling rock of honor once again.

Like a blind man healed by miracle, yet still groping in the precious
light that mazed him, so I peering with aching eyes for those threads to
guide me in my stunned perplexity. But when at last I felt their touch,
I found I held one already--the thread of hope--and whether for good or
evil I did not drop it, but gathered all together and wove them to a
rope to hold by.

"What is it I must swear," I asked, cold to the knees.

"Never again to kiss me."

"Never again."

"Nor to caress me."

"Nor to caress you."

"Nor speak of love."

"Nor speak of love."

"And ... that is all," she faltered.

"No, not all. I swear to love you always, never to forget you, never to
prove unworthy in your eyes, never to wed; living, to honor you; dying,
with your name upon my lips."

She had stretched out her arms towards me as though warning me to stop;
but, as I spoke slowly, weighing each word and its cost, her hands
trembled and sought each other so that she stood looking at me, fingers
interlocked and her sweet face as white as death.

And after a long time she came to me, and, raising my hands, kissed
them; and I touched her hair with dumb lips; and she stole away through
the starlight like a white ghost returning to its tomb.

And long after, long, long after, as I stood there, broke on my wrapt
ears the far stroke of horse's hoofs, nearer, nearer, until the black
bulk of the rider rose up in the night and Sir Lupus came to the porch.

"Eh! What?" he cried. "Sir George away with the Palatine rebels? Where?
Gone to Stanwix? Now Heaven have mercy on him for a madman who mixes in
this devil's brew! And he'll drown me with him, too! Dammy, they'll say
that I'm in with him. But I'm not! Curse me if I am. I'm
neutral--neither rebel nor Tory--and I'll let 'em know it, too; only
desiring quiet and peace and a fair word for all. Damnation!"

       *       *       *       *       *

And so had ended that memorable day and night; and now for two whole
wretched days I had not seen Dorothy, nor heard of her save through
Ruyven, who brought us news that she lay on her bed in the dark with no
desire for company.

"There is a doctor at Johnstown," he said; "but Dorothy refuses, saying
that she is only tired and requires peace and rest. I don't like it,
Cousin George. Never have I seen her ill, nor has any one. Suppose you
look at her, will you?"

"If she will permit me," I said, slowly. "Ask her, Ruyven."

But he returned, shaking his head, and I sat down once more upon the
porch to think of her and of all I loved in her; and how I must strive
to fashion my life so that I do naught that might shame me should
she know.

Now that it was believed that factional bickering between the
inhabitants of Tryon County might lead, in the immediate future, to
something more serious than town brawls and tavern squabbles; and,
more-over, as the Iroquois agitation had already resulted in the
withdrawal to Fort Niagara of the main body of the Mohawk nation--for
what ominous purpose it might be easy to guess--Sir Lupus forbade the
children to go a-roaming outside his own boundaries.

Further, he had cautioned his servants and tenants not to rove out of
bounds, to avoid public houses like the "Turtle-dove and Olive," and to
refrain from busying themselves about matters in which they had
no concern.

Yet that very day, spite of the patroon's orders, when General
Schuyler's militia-call went out, one-half of his tenantry disappeared
overnight, abandoning everything save their live-stock and a rough cart
heaped with household furniture; journeying with women and children,
goods and chattels, towards the nearest block-house or fort, there to
deposit all except powder-horn, flint, and rifle, and join the district
regiment now laboring with pick and shovel on the works at Fort Stanwix.

As I sat there on the porch, wretched, restless, debating what course I
should take in the presence of this growing disorder which, as I have
said, had already invaded our own tenantry, came Sir Lupus a-waddling,
pipe in hand, and Cato bearing his huge chair so he might sit in the
sun, which was warm on the porch.

"You've heard what my tenant rascals have done?" he grunted, settling in
his chair and stretching his fat legs.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"What d' ye think of it? Eh? What d' ye think?"

"I think it is very pitiful and sad to see these poor creatures leaving
their little farms to face the British regulars--and starvation."

"Face the devil!" he snorted. "Nobody forces 'em!"

"The greater honor due them," I retorted.

"Honor! Fol-de-rol! Had it been any other patroon but me, he'd turn his
manor-house into a court-house, arrest 'em, try 'em, and hang a few for
luck! In the old days, I'll warrant you, the Cosbys would have stood no
such nonsense--no, nor the Livingstons, nor the Van Cortlandts. A
hundred lashes here and there, a debtor's jail, a hanging or two, would
have made things more cheerful. But I, curse me if I could ever bring
myself to use my simplest prerogatives; I can't whip a man, no! I can't
hang a man for anything--even a sheep-thief has his chance with me--like
that great villain, Billy Bones, who turned renegade and joined Danny
Redstock and the McCraw."

He snorted in self-contempt and puffed savagely at his clay pipe.

"La patroon? Dammy, I'm an old woman! Get me my knitting! I want my
knitting and a sunny spot to mumble my gums and wait for noon and a dish
o' porridge!... George, my rents are cut in half, and half my farms
left to the briers and wolves in one day, because his Majesty, General
Schuyler, orders his Highness, Colonel Dayton, to call out half the
militia to make a fort for his Eminence, Colonel Gansevoort!"

"At Stanwix?"

"They call it Fort Schuyler now--after his Highness in Albany.

"Sir Lupus," I said, "if it is true that the British mean to invade us
here with Brant's Mohawks, there is but one bulwark between Tryon County
and the enemy, and that is Fort Stanwix. Why, in Heaven's name, should
it not be defended? If this British officer and his renegades, regulars,
and Indians take Stanwix and fortify Johnstown, the whole country will
swarm with savages, outlaws, and a brutal soldiery already hardened and
made callous by a year of frontier warfare!

"Can you not understand this, sir? Do you think it possible for these
blood-drunk ruffians to roam the Mohawk and Sacandaga valleys and
respect you and yours just because you say you are neutral? Turn loose a
pack of famished panthers in a common pasture and mark your sheep with
your device and see how many are alive at daybreak!"

"Dammy, sir!" cried Sir Lupus, "the enemy are led by British gentlemen."

"Who doubtless will keep their own cuffs clean; it were shame to doubt
it! But if the Mohawks march with them there'll be a bloody page in
Tryon County annals."

"The Mohawks will not join!" he said, violently. "Has not Schuyler held
a council-fire and talked with belts to the entire confederacy?"

"The confederacy returned no belts," I said, "and the Mohawks were not
present."

"Kirkland saw Brant," he persisted, obstinately.

"Yes, and sent a secret report to Albany. If there had been good news in
that report, you Tryon County men had heard it long since, Sir Lupus."

"With whom have you been talking, sir?" he sneered, removing his pipe
from his yellow teeth.

"With one of your tenants yesterday, a certain Christian Schell, lately
returned with Stoner's scout."

"And what did Stoner's men see in the northwest?" he demanded,
contemptuously.

"They saw half a thousand Mohawks with eyes painted in black circles and
white, Sir Lupus."

"For the planting-dance!" he muttered.

"No, Sir Lupus. The castles are empty, the villages deserted. There is
not one Mohawk left on their ancient lands, there is not one seed
planted, not one foot of soil cultivated, not one apple-bough grafted,
not one fish-line set!

"And you tell me the Mohawks are painted for the planting-dance, in
black and white? With every hatchet shining like silver, and every
knife ground to a razor-edge, and every rifle polished, and every
flint new?"

"Who saw such things?" he asked, hoarsely.

"Christian Schell, of Stoner's scout."

"Now God curse them if they lift an arm to harm a Tryon County man!" he
burst out. "I'll not believe it of the British gentlemen who differ with
us over taxing tea! No, dammy if I'll credit such a monstrous thing as
this alliance!"

"Yet, a few nights since, sir, you heard Walter Butler and Sir John
threaten to use the Mohawks."

"And did not heed them!" he said, angrily. "It is all talk, all threats,
and empty warning. I tell you they dare not for their names' sakes
employ the savages against their own kind--against friends who think not
as they think--against old neighbors, ay, their own kin!

"Nor dare we. Look at Schuyler--a gentleman, if ever there was one on
this rotten earth--standing, belts in hand, before the sachems of the
confederacy, not soliciting Cayuga support, not begging Seneca aid, not
proposing a foul alliance with the Onondagas; but demanding right
manfully that the confederacy remain neutral; nay, more, he repulsed
offers of warriors from the Oneidas to scout for him, knowing what that
sweet word 'scout' implied--God bless him I ... I have no love for
Schuyler.... He lately called me 'malt-worm,' and, if I'm not at fault,
he added, 'skin-flint Dutchman,' or some such tribute to my thrift. But
he has conducted like a man of honor in this Iroquois matter, and I care
not who hears me say it!"

He settled himself in his chair, mumbling in a rumbling voice, and all I
could make out was here and there a curse or two distributed impartially
'twixt Tory and rebel and other asses now untethered in the world.

"Well, sir," I said, "from all I can gather, Burgoyne is marching
southward through the lakes, and Clinton is gathering an army in New
York to march north and meet Burgoyne, and now comes this Barry St.
Leger on the flank, aiming to join the others at Albany after taking
Stanwix and Johnstown on the march--three spears to pierce a common
centre, three torches to fire three valleys, and you neutral Tryon men
in the centre, calm, undismayed, smoking your pipes and singing songs of
peace and good-will for all on earth."

"And why not, sir!" he snapped.

"Did you ever hear of Juggernaut?"

"I've heard the name--a Frenchman, was he not? I think he burned
Schenectady."

"No, sir; he is a heathen god."

"And what the devil, sir, has Tryon County to do with heathen gods!" he
bawled.

"You shall see--when the wheels pass," I said, gloomily.

He folded his fat hands over his stomach and smoked in obstinate
silence. I, too, was silent; again a faint disgust for this man seized
me. How noble and unselfish now appeared the conduct of those poor
tenants of his who had abandoned their little farms to answer Schuyler's
call!--trudging northward with wives and babes, trusting to God for
bread to fall like manna in this wilderness to save the frail lives of
their loved ones, while they faced the trained troops of Great Britain,
and perhaps the Iroquois.

And here he sat, the patroon, sucking his pipe, nursing his stomach; too
cautious, too thrifty to stand like a man, even for the honor of his own
roof-tree! Lord! how mean, how sordid did he look to me, sulking there,
his mottled double-chin crowded out upon his stock, his bow-legs wide to
cradle the huge belly, his small eyes obstinately a-squint and partly
shut, which lent a gross shrewdness to the expanse of fat, almost
baleful, like the eye of a squid in its shapeless, jellied body!

"What are your plans?" he said, abruptly.

I told him that, through Sir George, I had placed my poor services at
the State's disposal.

"You mean the rebel State's disposal?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you are ready to enlist?"

"Quite ready, Sir Lupus."

"Only awaiting summons from Clinton and Schuyler?" he sneered.

"That is all, sir."

"And what about your properties in Florida?"

"I can do nothing there. If they confiscate them in my absence, they
might do worse were I to go back and defy them. I believe my life is
worth something to our cause, and it would be only to waste it foolishly
if I returned to fight for a few indigo-vats and canefields."

"While you can remain here and fight for other people's hen-coops, eh?"

"No, sir; only to take up the common quarrel and stand for that liberty
which we inherited from those who now seek to dispossess us."

"Quite an orator!" he observed, grimly. "The Ormonds were formerly more
ready with their swords than with their tongues."

"I trust I shall not fail to sustain their traditions," I said,
controlling my anger with a desperate effort.

He burst out into a hollow laugh.

"There you go, red as a turkey-cock and madder than a singed tree-cat!
George, can't you let me plague you in comfort! Dammy, it's undutiful!
For pity's sake! let me sneer--let me gibe and jeer if it eases me."

I glared at him, half inclined to laugh.

"Curse it!" he said, wrathfully, "I'm serious. You don't know how
serious I am. It's no laughing matter, George. I must do something to
ease me!" He burst out into a roar, swearing in volleys.

"D' ye think I wish to appear contemptible?" he shouted. "D' ye think I
like to sit here like an old wife, scolding in one breath and preaching
thrift in the next? A weak-kneed, chicken-livered, white-bellied old
bullfrog that squeaks and jumps, plunk! into the puddle when a footstep
falls in the grass! Am I not a patroon? Am I not Dutch? Granted I'm fat
and slow and a glutton, and lazy as a wolverine. I can fight like one,
too! Don't make any mistake there, George!"

His broad face flushed crimson, his little, green eyes snapped fire.

"D' ye think I don't love a fight as well as my neighbor? D' ye think
I've a stomach for insults and flouts and winks and nudges? Have I a
liver to sit doing sums on my thumbs when these impudent British are
kicking my people out of their own doors? Am I of a kidney to smile and
bow, and swallow and digest the orders of Tory swashbucklers, who lay
down a rule of conduct for men who should be framing rules of common
decency for them? D' ye think I'm a snail or a potato or an empty pair
o' breeches? Damnation!"

Rage convulsed him. He recovered his self-command slowly, smashing his
pipe in the interval; and I, astonished beyond measure, waited for the
explanation which he appeared to be disposed to give.

"If I'm what I am," he said, hoarsely, "an old jack-ass he-hawing
'Peace! peace! thrift! thrift!' it is because I must and not because the
music pleases me.... And I had not meant to tell you why--for none other
suspects it--but my personal honor is at stake. I am in debt to a
friend, George, and unless I am left in peace here to collect my tithes
and till my fields and run my mills and ship my pearl-ashes, I can never
hope to pay a debt of honor incurred--and which I mean to pay, if I
live, so help me God!

"Lad, if this house, these farms, these acres were my own, do you think
I'd hesitate to polish up that old sword yonder that my father carried
when Schenectady went up in flames?... Know me better, George!... Know
that this condemnation to inaction is the bitterest trial I have ever
known. How easy it would be for me to throw my own property into one
balance, my sword into the other, and say, 'Defend the one with the
other or be robbed!' But I can't throw another man's lands into the
balance. I can't raise the war-yelp and go careering about after glory
when I owe every shilling I possess and thousands more to an honorable
and generous gentleman who refused all security for the loan save my own
word of honor.

"And now, simple, brave, high-minded as he is, he offers to return me my
word of honor, free me from his debt, and leave me unshackled to conduct
in this coming war as I see fit.

"But that is more than he can do, George. My word once pledged can only
be redeemed by what it stood for, and he is powerless to give it back.

"That is all, sir.... Pray think more kindly of an old fool in future,
when you plume yourself upon your liberty to draw sword in the most just
cause this world has ever known."

"It is I who am the fool, Sir Lupus," I said, in a low voice.



XI

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS

I remember it was the last day of May before I saw my cousin Dorothy
again.

Late that afternoon I had taken a fishing-rod and a book, The Poems of
Pansard, and had set out for the grist-mill on the stream below the
log-bridge; but did not go by road, as the dust was deep, so instead
crossed the meadow and entered the cool thicket, making a shorter route
to the stream.

Through the woodland, as I passed, I saw violets in hollows and blue
innocence starring moist glades with its heavenly color, and in the
drier woods those slender-stemmed blue bell-flowers which some call the
Venus's looking-glass.

In my saddened and rebellious heart a more innocent passion stirred and
awoke--the tender pleasure I have always found in seeking out those shy
people of the forest, the wild blossoms--a harmless pleasure, for it is
ever my habit to leave them undisturbed upon their stalks.

Deeper in the forest pink moccasin-flowers bloomed among rocks, and the
air was tinctured with a honeyed smell from the spiked orchis cradled in
its sheltering leaf under the hemlock shade.

Once, as I crossed a marshy place, about me floated a violet perfume,
and I was at a loss to find its source until I espied a single purple
blossom of the Arethusa bedded in sturdy thickets of rose-azalea,
faintly spicy, and all humming with the wings of plundering bees.

Underfoot my shoes brushed through spikenard, and fell silently on
carpets of moss-pinks, and once I saw a matted bed of late Mayflower,
and the forest dusk grew sweeter and sweeter, saturating all the
woodland, until each breath I drew seemed to intoxicate.

Spring languor was in earth and sky, and in my bones, too; yet, through
this Northern forest ever and anon came faint reminders of receding
snows, melting beyond the Canadas--delicate zephyrs, tinctured with the
far scent of frost, flavoring the sun's balm at moments with a
sharper essence.

Now traversing a ferny space edged in with sweetbrier, a breeze
accompanied me, caressing neck and hair, stirring a sudden warmth upon
my cheek like a breathless maid close beside me, whispering.

Then through the rustle of leafy depths I heard the stream's laughter,
very far away, and I turned to the left across the moss, walking more
swiftly till I came to the log-bridge where the road crosses. Below me
leaped the stream, deep in its ravine of slate, roaring over the dam
above the rocky gorge only to flow out again between the ledge and the
stone foundations of the grist-mill opposite. Down into the ravine and
under the dam I climbed, using the mossy steps that nature had cut in
the slate, and found a rock to sit on where the spray from the dam could
not drench me. And here I baited my hook and cast out, so that the
swirling water might carry my lure under the mill's foundations, where
Ruyven said big, dusky trout most often lurked.

But I am no fisherman, and it gives me no pleasure to drag a finny
creature from its element and see its poor mouth gasp and its eyes glaze
and the fiery dots on its quivering sides grow dimmer. So when a sly
trout snatched off my bait I was in no mood to cover my hook again, but
set the rod on the rocks and let the bright current waft my line as it
would, harmless now as the dusty alder leaves dimpling yonder ripple. So
I opened my book, idly attentive, reading The Poems of Pansard, while
dappled shadows of clustered maple leaves moved on the page, and droning
bees set old Pansard's lines to music.

     "Like two sweet skylarks springing skyward, singing,
       Piercing the empyrean of blinding light,
     So shall our souls take flight, serenely winging,
       Soaring on azure heights to God's delight;
     While from below through sombre deeps come stealing
     The floating notes of earthward church-bells pealing."

My thoughts wandered and the yellow page faded to a glimmer amid pale
spots of sunshine waning when some slow cloud drifted across the sun.
Again my eyes returned to the printed page, and again thought parted
from its moorings, a derelict upon the tide of memory. Far in the forest
I heard the white-throat's call with the endless, sad refrain,
"Weep-wee-p! Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy!" Though some vow that the little
bird sings plainly, "Sweet-sw-eet! Canada, Canada, Canada!"

Then for a while I closed my eyes until, slowly, that awakening sense
that somebody was looking at me came over me, and I raised my head.

Dorothy stood on the log-bridge above the dam, elbows on the rail,
gazing pensively at me.

"Well, of all idle men!" she said, steadying her voice perceptibly.
"Shall I come down?"

And without waiting for a reply she walked around to the south end of
the bridge and began to descend the ravine.

I offered assistance; she ignored it and picked her own way down the
cleft to the stream-side.

"It seems a thousand years since I have seen you," she said. "What have
you been doing all this while? What are you doing now? Reading? Oh!
fishing! And can you catch nothing, silly?... Give me that rod.... No,
I don't want it, after all; let the trout swim in peace.... How pale you
have grown, cousin!"

"You also, Dorothy," I said.

"Oh, I know that; there's a glass in my room, thank you.... I thought
I'd come down.... There is company at the house--some of Colonel
Gansevoort's officers, Third Regiment of the New York line, if you
please, and two impudent young ensigns of the Half-moon Regiment, all on
their way to Stanwix fort."

She seated herself on the deep moss and balanced her back against a
silver-birch tree.

"They're at the house, all these men," she said; "and what do you think?
General Schuyler and his lady are to arrive this evening, and I'm to
receive them, dressed in my best tucker!... and there may be others
with them, though the General comes on a tour of inspection, being
anxious lest disorder break out in this district if he is compelled to
abandon Ticonderoga.... What do you think of that--George?"

My name fell so sweetly, so confidently, from her lips that I looked up
in warm pleasure and found her grave eyes searching mine.

"Make it easier for me," she said, in a low voice. "How can I talk to
you if you do not answer me?"

"I--I mean to answer, Dorothy," I stammered; "I am very thankful for
your kindness to me."

"Do you think it is hard to be kind to you?" she murmured. "What
happiness if I only might be kind!" She hid her face in her hands and
bowed her head. "Pay no heed to me," she said; "I--I thought I could
see you and control this rebel tongue of mine. And here am I with heart
insurgent beating the long roll and every nerve a-quiver with sedition!"

"What are you saying?" I protested, miserably.

She dropped her hands from her face and gazed at me quite calmly.

"Saying? I was saying that these rocks are wet, and that I was silly to
come down here in my Pompadour shoes and stockings, and I'm silly to
stay here, and I'm going!"

And go she did, up over the moss and rock like a fawn, and I after her
to the top of the bank, where she seemed vastly surprised to see me.

"Now I pray you choose which way you mean to stroll," she said,
impatiently. "Here lie two paths, and I will take this straight and
narrow one."

She turned sharply and I with her, and for a long time we walked
swiftly, side by side, exchanging neither word nor glance until at last
she stopped short, seated herself on a mossy log, and touched her hot
face with a crumpled bit of lace and cambric.

"I tell you what, Mr. Longshanks!" she said. "I shall go no farther with
you unless you talk to me. Mercy on the lad with his seven-league boots!
He has me breathless and both hat-strings flying and my shoe-points
dragging to trip my heels! Sit down, sir, till I knot my ribbons under
my ear; and I'll thank you to tie my shoe-points! Not doubled in a
sailor's-knot, silly!... And, oh, cousin, I would I had a sun-mask!...
Now you are laughing! Oh, I know you think me a country hoyden, careless
of sunburn and dust! But I'm not. I love a smooth, white skin as well as
any London beau who praises it in verses. And I shall have one for
myself, too. You may see, to-night, if the Misses Carmichael come with
Lady Schuyler, for we'll have a dance, perhaps, and I mean to paint and
patch and powder till you'd swear me a French marquise!... Cousin, this
narrow forest pathway leads across the water back to the house. Shall we
take it?... You will have to carry me over the stream, for I'll not wet
my shins for love of any man, mark that!"

She tied her pink hat-ribbons under her chin and stood up while I made
ready; then I lifted her from the ground. Very gravely she dropped her
arms around my neck as I stepped into the rushing current and waded out,
the water curling almost to my knee-buckles. So we crossed the
grist-mill stream in silence, eyes averted from each other's faces; and
in silence, too, we resumed the straight and narrow path, now deep with
last year's leaves, until we came to a hot, sandy bank covered with wild
strawberries, overlooking the stream.

In a moment she was on her knees, filling her handkerchief with
strawberries, and I sat down in the yellow sand, eyes following the
stream where it sparkled deep under its leafy screen below.

"Cousin," she said, timidly, "are you displeased?"

"Why?"

"At my tyranny to make you bear me across the stream--with all your
heavier burdens, and my own--"

"I ask no sweeter burdens," I replied.

She seated herself in the sand and placed a scarlet berry between lips
that matched it.

"I have tried very hard to talk to you," she said.

"I don't know what to say, Dorothy," I muttered. "Truly I do desire to
amuse you and make you laugh--as once I did. But the heart of everything
seems dead. There! I did not mean that! Don't hide your face, Dorothy!
Don't look like that! I--I cannot bear it. And listen, cousin; we are to
be quite happy. I have thought it all out, and I mean to be gay and
amuse you.... Won't you look at me, Dorothy?" "Wh--why?" she asked,
unsteadily.

"Just to see how happy I am--just to see that I pull no long
faces--idiot that I was!... Dorothy, will you smile just once?"

"Yes," she whispered, lifting her head and raising her wet lashes.
Presently her lips parted in one of her adorable smiles. "Now that you
have made me weep till my nose is red you may pick me every strawberry
in sight," she said, winking away the bright tears. "You have heard of
the penance of the Algonquin witch?"

I knew nothing of Northern Indian lore, and I said so.

"What? You never heard of the Stonish Giants? You never heard of the
Flying Head? Mercy on the boy! Sit here and we'll eat strawberries and I
shall tell you tales of the Long House.... Sit nearer, for I shall speak
in a low voice lest old Atotarho awake from his long sleep and the dead
pines ring hollow, like witch-drums under the yellow-hammer's double
blows.... Are you afraid?"

"All a-shiver," I whispered, gayly.

"Then listen," she breathed, raising one pink-tipped finger. "This is
the tale of the Eight Thunders, told in the oldest tongue of the
confederacy and to all ensigns of the three clans ere the Erians sued
for peace. Therefore it is true.

"Long ago, the Holder of the Heavens made a very poisonous blue otter,
and the Mohawks killed it and threw its body into the lake. And the
Holder of Heaven came to the eastern door of the Long House and knocked,
saying: 'Where is the very poisonous blue otter that I made, O Keepers
of the Eastern Door?'

"'Who calls?' asked the Mohawks, peeping out to see.

"Then the Holder of the Heavens named himself, and the Mohawks were
afraid and hid in the Long House, listening.

"'Be afraid! O you wise men and sachems! The wisdom of a child alone can
save you!' said the Holder of the Heavens. Saying this he wrapped
himself in a bright cloud and went like a swift arrow to the sun."

My cousin's voice had fallen into a low, melodious sing-song; her rapt
eyes were fixed on me.

"A youth of the Mohawks loved a maid, and they sat by the lake at night,
counting the Dancers in the sky--which we call stars of the Pleiades.

"'One has fallen into the lake,' said the youth.

"'It is the eye of the very poisonous blue otter,' replied the maid,
beginning to cry.

"'I see the lost Dancer shining down under the water,' said the youth
again. Then he bade the maid go back and wait for him; and she went back
and built a fire and sat sadly beside it. Then she heard some one coming
and turned around. A young man stood there dressed in white, and with
white feathers on his head. 'You are sad,' he said to the maid, 'but we
will help you.' Then he gave her a belt of purple wampum to show that he
spoke the truth.

"'Follow,' he said; and she followed to a place in the forest where
smoke rose. There she saw a fire, and, around it, eight chiefs sitting,
with white feathers on their heads.

"'These chiefs are the Eight Thunders,' she thought; 'now they will help
me.' And she said: 'A Dancer has fallen out of the sky and a Mohawk
youth has plunged for it.'

"'The blue otter has turned into a serpent, and the Mohawk youth beheld
her eye under the waters,' they said, one after the other. The maid wept
and laid the wampum at her feet. Then she rubbed ashes on her lips and
on her breasts and in the palms of her hands.

"'The Mohawk youth has wedded the Lake Serpent,' they said, one after
the other. The maid wept; and she rubbed ashes on her thighs and on
her feet.

"'Listen,' they said, one after another; 'take strawberries and go to
the lake. You will know what to do. When that is done we will come in
the form of a cloud on the lake, not in the sky.'

"So she found strawberries in the starlight and went to the lake,
calling, 'Friend! Friend! I am going away and wish to see you!'

"Out on the lake the water began to boil, and coming out of it she saw
her friend. He had a spot on his forehead and looked like a serpent, and
yet like a man. Then she spread the berries on the shore and he came to
the land and ate. Then he went back to the shore and placed his lips to
the water, drinking. And the maid saw him going down through the water
like a snake. So she cried, 'Friends! Friends! I am going away and wish
to see you!'

"The lake boiled and her friend came out of it. The lake boiled once
more; not in one spot alone, but all over, like a high sea spouting on
a reef.

"Out of the water came her friend's wife, beautiful to behold and
shining with silver scales. Her long hair fell all around her, and
seemed like silver and gold. When she came ashore she stretched out on
the sand and took a strawberry between her lips. The young maid watched
the lake until she saw something moving on the waters a great way off,
which seemed like a cloud.

"In a moment the stars went out and it grew dark, and it thundered till
the skies fell down, torn into rain by the terrible lightning. All was
still at last, and it grew lighter. The maid opened her eyes to find
herself in the arms of her friend. But at their feet lay the dying
sparks of a shattered star.

"Then as they went back through the woods the eight chiefs passed them
in Indian file, and they saw them rising higher and higher, till they
went up to the sky like mists at sunrise."

Dorothy's voice died away; she stretched out one arm.

[Illustration: "THIS IS THE END, O YOU WISE MEN AND SACHEMS!".]

"This is the end, O you wise men and sachems, told since the beginning
to us People of the Morning. Hiro [I have spoken]!"

Then a startling thing occurred; up from the underbrush behind us rose a
tall Indian warrior, naked to the waist, painted from belt to brow with
terrific, nameless emblems and signs. I sprang to my feet,
horror-struck; the savage folded his arms, quietly smiling; and I saw
knife and hatchet resting in his belt and a long rifle on the moss
at his feet.

"Koue! That was a true tale," he said, in good English. "It is a miracle
that one among you sings the truth concerning us poor Mohawks."

"Do you come in peace?" I asked, almost stunned.

He made a gesture. "Had I come otherwise, you had known it!" He looked
straight at Dorothy. "You are the patroon's daughter. Does he speak as
truthfully of the Mohawks as do you?"

"Who are you?" I asked, slowly.

He smiled again. "My name is Brant," he said.

"Joseph Brant! Thayendanegea!" murmured Dorothy, aloud.

"A cousin of his," said the savage, carelessly. Then he turned sternly
on me. "Tell that man who follows me that I could have slain him twice
within the hour; once at the ford, once on Stoner's hill. Does he take
me for a deer? Does he believe I wear war-paint? There is no war betwixt
the Mohawks and the Boston people--yet! Tell that fool to go home!"

"What fool?" I asked, troubled.

"You will meet him--journeying the wrong way," said the Indian, grimly.

With a quick, guarded motion he picked up his rifle, turned short, and
passed swiftly northward straight into the forest, leaving us listening
there together long after he had disappeared.

"That chief was Joseph Brant, ... but he wore no war-paint," whispered
my cousin. "He was painted for the secret rites of the False-Faces."

"He could have slain us as we sat," I said, bitterly humiliated.

She looked up at me thoughtfully; there was not in her face the
slightest trace of the deep emotions which had shocked me.

"A tribal fire is lighted somewhere," she mused. "Chiefs like Brant do
not travel alone--unless--unless he came to consult that witch Catrine
Montour, or to guide her to some national council-fire in the North."

She pondered awhile, and I stood by in silence, my heart still beating
heavily from my astonishment at the hideous apparition of a
moment since.

"Do you know," she said, "that I believe Brant spoke the truth. There is
no war yet, as far as concerns the Mohawks. The smoke we saw was a
secret signal; that hag was scuttling around to collect the False-Faces
for a council. They may mean war; I'm sure they mean it, though Brant
wore no war-paint. But war has not yet been declared; it is no scant
ceremony when a nation of the Iroquois decides on war. And if the
confederacy declares war the ceremonies may last a fortnight. The
False-Faces must be heard from first. And, Heaven help us! I believe
their fires are lighted now."

"What ghastly manner of folk are these False-Faces?" I asked.

"A secret clan, common to all Northern and Western Indians, celebrating
secret rites among the six nations of the Iroquois. Some say the
spectacle is worse than the orgies of the Dream-feast--a frightful
sight, truly hellish; and yet others say the False-Faces do no harm, but
make merry in secret places. But this I know; if the False-Faces are to
decide for war or peace, they will sway the entire confederacy, and
perhaps every Indian in North America; for though nobody knows who
belongs to the secret sect, two-thirds of the Mohawks are said to be
numbered in its ranks; and as go the Mohawks, so goes the confederacy."

"How is it you know all this?" I asked, amazed.

"My playmate was Magdalen Brant," she said. "Her playmates were pure
Mohawk."

"Do you mean to tell me that this painted savage is kin to that lovely
girl who came with Sir John and the Butlers?" I demanded.

"They are related. And, cousin, this 'painted savage' is no savage if
the arts of civilization which he learned at Dr. Wheelock's school count
for anything. He was secretary to old Sir William. He is an educated
man, spite of his naked body and paint, and the more to be dreaded, it
appears to me.... Hark! See those branches moving beside the trail!
There is a man yonder. Follow me."

On the sandy bank our shoes made little sound, yet the unseen man heard
us and threw up a glittering rifle, calling out: "Halt! or I fire."

Dorothy stopped short, and her hand fell on my arm, pressing it
significantly. Out into the middle of the trail stepped a tall fellow
clad from throat to ankle in deer-skin. On his curly head rested a
little, round cap of silvery mole-skin, light as a feather; his
leggings' fringe was dyed green; baldrick, knife-sheath, bullet-pouch,
powder-horn, and hatchet-holster were deeply beaded in scarlet, white,
and black, and bands of purple porcupine-quills edged shoulder-cape and
moccasins, around which were painted orange- flowers, each
centred with a golden bead.

"A forest-runner," she motioned with her lips, "and, if I'm not blind,
he should answer to the name of Mount--and many crimes, they say."

The forest-runner stood alert, rifle resting easily in the hollow of his
left arm.

"Who passes?" he called out.

"White folk," replied Dorothy, laughing. Then we stepped out.

"Well, well," said the forest-runner, lifting his mole-skin cap with a
grin; "if this is not the pleasantest sight that has soothed my eyes
since we hung that Tory whelp last Friday--and no disrespect to Mistress
Varick, whose father is more patriot than many another I might name!"

"I bid you good-even, Jack Mount," said Dorothy, smiling.

"To you, Mistress Varick," he said, bowing the deeper; then glanced
keenly at me and recognized me at the same moment. "Has my prophecy come
true, sir?" he asked, instantly.

"God save our country," I said, significantly.

"Then I was right!" he said, and flushed with pleasure when I offered
him my hand.

"If I am not too free," he muttered, taking my hand in his great, hard
paw, almost affectionately.

"You may walk with us if you journey our way," said Dorothy; and the
great fellow shuffled up beside her, cap in hand, and it amused me to
see him strive to shorten his strides to hers, so that he presently fell
into a strange gait, half-skip, half-toddle.

"Pray cover yourself," said Dorothy, encouragingly, and Mount did so,
dumb as a Matanzas oyster and crimson as a boiled sea-crab. Then,
doubtless, deeming that gentility required some polite observation, he
spoke in a high-pitched voice of the balmy weather and the sweet
profusion of birds and flowers, when there was more like to be a "sweet
profusion" of Indians; and I nigh stifled with laughter to see this
lumbering, free-voiced forest-runner transformed to a mincing, anxious,
backwoods macaroni at the smile of a pretty woman.

"Do you bring no other news save of the birds and blossoms?" asked
Dorothy, mischievously. "Tell us what we all are fearful of. Have the
Senecas and Cayugas risen to join the British?"

Mount stole a glance at me.

"I wish I knew," he muttered.

"We will know soon, now," I said, soberly.

"Sooner, perhaps, than you expect, sir," he said. "I am summoned to the
manor to confer with General Schuyler on this very matter of the
Iroquois."

"Is it true that the Mohawks are in their war-paint?" asked Dorothy,
maliciously.

"Stoner and Timothy Murphy say so," replied Mount. "Sir John and the
Butlers are busy with the Onondagas and Oneidas; Dominic Kirkland is
doing his best to keep them peaceable; and our General played his last
cards at their national council. We can only wait and see,
Mistress Varick."

He hesitated, glancing at me askance.

"The fact is," he said, "I've been sniffing at moccasin tracks for the
last hour, up hill, down dale, over the ford, where I lost them, then
circled and picked them up again on the moss a mile below the bridge. If
I read them right, they were Mohawk tracks and made within the hour, and
how that skulking brute got away from me I cannot think."

He looked at us in an injured manner, for we were striving not to smile.

"I'm counted a good tracker," he muttered. "I'm as good as Walter
Butler or Tim Murphy, and my friend, the Weasel, now with Morgan's
riflemen, is no keener forest-runner than am I. Oh, I do not mean to
brag, or say I can match my cunning against such a human bloodhound as
Joseph Brant."

He paused, in hurt surprise, for we were laughing. And then I told him
of the Indian and what message he had sent by us, and Mount listened,
red as a pippin, gnawing his lip.

"I am glad to know it," he said. "This will be evil news to General
Schuyler, I have no doubt. Lord! but it makes me mad to think how close
to Brant I stood and could not drill his painted hide!"

"He spared you," I said.

"That is his affair," muttered Mount, striding on angrily.

"There speaks the obstinate white man, who can see no good in any
savage," whispered Dorothy. "Nothing an Indian does is right or
generous; these forest-runners hate them, distrust them, fear
them--though they may deny it--and kill all they can. And you may argue
all day with an Indian-hater and have your trouble to pay you. Yet I
have heard that this man Mount is brave and generous to enemies of his
own color."

We had now come to the road in front of the house, and Mount set his cap
rakishly on his head, straightened cape and baldrick, and ran his
fingers through the gorgeous thrums rippling from sleeve and thigh.

"I'd barter a month's pay for a pot o' beer," he said to me. "I learned
to drink serving with Cresap's riflemen at the siege of Boston; a
godless company, sir, for an innocent man to fall among. But Morgan's
rifles are worse, Mr. Ormond; they drink no water save when it rains in
their gin toddy."

"Sir Lupus says you tried to join them," said Dorothy, to plague him.

"So I did, Mistress Varick, so I did," he stammered; "to break 'em o'
their habits, ma'am. Trust me, if I had that corps I'd teach 'em to let
spirits alone if I had to drink every drop in camp to keep 'em sober!"

"There's beer in the buttery," she said, laughing; "and if you smile at
Tulip she'll see you starve not."

"Nobody," said I, "goes thirsty or hungry at Varick Manor."

"Indeed, no," said Dorothy, much amused, as old Cato came down the path,
hat in hand. "Here, Cato! do you take Captain Mount and see that he is
comfortable and that he lacks nothing."

So, standing together in the stockade gateway, we watched Cato
conducting Mount towards the quarters behind the guard-house, then
walked on to meet the children, who came dancing down the driveway
to greet us.

"Dorothy! Dorothy!" cried Cecile, "we've shaved candles and waxed the
library floors. Lady Schuyler is here and the General and the Carmichael
girls we knew at school, and their cousin, Maddaleen Dirck, and Christie
McDonald and Marguerite Haldimand--cousin to the Tory general in
Canada--and--"

"I'm to walk a minuet with Madge Haldimand!" broke in Ruyven; "will you
lend me your gold stock-buckle, Cousin Ormond?"

"I mean to dance, too," cried Harry, crowding up to pluck my sleeve.
"Please, Cousin Ormond, lend me a lace handkerchief."

"Paltz Clavarack, of the Half-moon Regiment, asked me to walk a minuet,"
observed Cecile, tossing her head. "I'm sure I don't know what to say.
He's so persistent."

Benny's clamor broke out: "Thammy thtole papath betht thnuff-boxth!
Thammy thtole papath betht thnuff-boxth!"

"Sammy!" cried Dorothy, "what did you steal your father's best snuff-box
for?"

"I only desired to offer snuff to General Schuyler," said Sammy,
sullenly, amid a roar of laughter.

"We're to dine at eight! Everybody is dressing; come on, Dorothy!" cried
Cecile. "Mr. Clavarack vowed he'd perish if I kept him waiting--"

"You should see the escort!" said Ruyven to me. "Dragoons, cousin, in
leather helmets and jack-boots, and all wearing new sabres taken from
the Hessian cavalry. They're in the quarters with Tim Murphy, of
Morgan's, and, Lord! how thirsty they appear to be!"

"There's the handsomest man I ever saw," murmured Cecile to Dorothy,
"Captain O'Neil, of the New York line. He's dying to see you; he said so
to Mr. Clavarack, and I heard him."

Dorothy looked up with heightened color.

"Will you walk the minuet with me, Dorothy?" I whispered.

She looked down, faintly smiling:

"Perhaps," she said.

"That is no answer," I retorted, surprised and hurt.

"I know it," she said, demurely.

"Then answer me, Dorothy!"

She looked at me so gravely that I could not be certain whether it was
pretence or earnest.

"I am hostess," she said; "I belong to my guests. If my duties prevent
my walking the minuet with you, I shall find a suitable partner for
you, cousin."

"And no doubt for yourself," I retorted, irritated to rudeness.

Surprise and disdain were in her eyes. Her raised brows and cool smile
boded me no good.

"I thought I was free to choose," she said, serenely.

"You are, and so am I," I said. "Will you have me for the minuet?"

We paused in the hallway, facing each other.

She gave me a dangerous glance, biting her lip in silence.

And, the devil possessing me, I said, "For the last time, will you take
me?"

"No!" she said, under her breath. "You have your answer now."

"I have my answer," I repeated, setting my teeth.



XII

THE GHOST-RING

I had bathed and dressed me in my best suit of pale-lilac silk, with
flapped waistcoat of primrose stiff with gold, and Cato was powdering my
hair; when Sir Lupus waddled in, magnificent in scarlet and white, and
smelling to heaven of French perfume and pomatum.

"George!" he cried, in his brusque, explosive fashion, "I like Schuyler,
and I care not who knows it! Dammy! I was cool enough with him and his
lady when they arrived, but he played Valentine to my Orson till I gave
up; yes, I did, George, I capitulated. Says he, 'Sir Lupus, if a painful
misunderstanding has kept us old neighbors from an exchange of
civilities, I trust differences may be forgotten in this graver crisis.
In our social stratum there is but one great line of cleavage now,
opened by the convulsions of war, sir."

"'Damn the convulsions of war, sir!' says I.

"'Quite right,' says he, mildly; 'war is always damnable, Sir Lupus.'

"'General Schuyler,' says I, 'there is no nonsense about me. You and
Lady Schuyler are under my roof, and you are welcome, whatever opinion
you entertain of me and my fashion of living. I understand perfectly
that this visit is not a visit of ceremony from a neighbor, but a
military necessity.'

"'Sir Lupus,' says Lady Schuyler, 'had it been only a military
necessity I should scarcely have accompanied the General and
his guests.'

"'Madam,' says I, 'it is commonly reported that I offended the entire
aristocracy of Albany when I had Sir John Johnson's sweetheart to dine
with them. And for that I have been ostracized. For which ostracism,
madam, I care not a brass farthing. And, madam, were I to dine all
Albany to-night, I should not ignore my old neighbors and friends, the
Putnams of Tribes Hill, to suit the hypocrisy of a few strangers from
Albany. Right is right, madam, and decency is decency! And I say now
that to honest men Claire Putnam is Sir John's wife by every law of
honor, decency, and chivalry; and I shall so treat her in the face of a
rotten world and to the undying shame of that beast, Sir John!'

"Whereupon--would you believe it, George?--Schuyler took both my hands
in his and said my conduct honored me, and more of the same sort o'
thing, and Lady Schuyler gave me her hand in that sweet, stately
fashion; and, dammy! I saluted her finger-tips. Heaven knows how I found
it possible to bend my waist, but I did, George. And there's an end to
the whole matter!"

He took snuff, blew his nose violently, snapped his gold snuff-box, and
waddled to the window, where, below, in the early dusk, torches and
rush-lights burned, illuminating the cavalry horses tethered along their
picket-rope, and the trooper on guard, pacing his beat, musket shining
in the wavering light.

"That escort will be my undoing," he muttered. "Folk will dub me a
partisan now. Dammy! a man under my roof is a guest, be he Tory or
rebel. I do but desire to cultivate my land and pay my debts of honor;
and I'll stick to it till they leave me in peace or hang me to my
barn door!"

And he toddled out, muttering and fumbling with his snuff-box, bidding
me hasten and not keep them waiting dinner.

I stood before the mirror with its lighted sconces, gazing grimly at my
sober face while Cato tied my queue-ribbon and dusted my silken
coat-skirts. Then I fastened the brilliant buckle under my chin, shook
out the deep, soft lace at throat and wristband, and took my small-sword
from Cato.

"Mars' George," murmured the old man, "yo' look lak yo' is gwine wed wif
mah li'l Miss Dorry."

I stared at him angrily. "What put that into your head?" I demanded.

"I dunno, suh; hit dess look dat-a-way to me, suh."

"You're a fool," I said, sharply.

"No, suh, I ain' no fool, Mars' George. I done see de sign! Yaas, suh, I
done see de sign."

"What sign?"

The old man chuckled, looked slyly at my left hand, then chuckled again.

"Mars' George, yo' is wearin' yo' weddin'-ring now!"

"A ring! There is no ring on my hand, you rascal!" I said.

"Yaas, suh; dey sho' is, Mars' George," he insisted, still chuckling.

"I tell you I never wear a ring," I said, impatiently.

"'Scuse me, Mars' George, suh," he said, humbly. And, lifting my left
hand, laid it in his wrinkled, black palm, peering closely. I also
looked, and saw at the base of my third finger a circle like the mark
left by a wedding-ring.

"That is strange," I said; "I never wore a ring in all my life!"

"Das de sign, suh," muttered the old man; "das de Ormond sign, suh. Yo'
pap wore de ghos'-ring, an' his pap wore it too, suh. All de Ormonds
done wore de ghos'-ring fore dey wus wedded. Hit am dess dat-a-way.
Mars' George--"

He hesitated, looking up at me with gentle, dim eyes.

"Miss Dorry, suh--"

He stopped short, then dropped his voice to a whisper.

"'Fore Miss Dorry git up outen de baid, suh, I done tote de bre'kfus in
de mawnin'. An' de fustest word dat li'l Miss Dorry say, 'Cato,' she
say, 'whar Mars' George?' she say. 'He 'roun' de yahd, Miss Dorry,' I
say. ''Pears lak he gettin' mo' res'less an' mis'ble, Miss Dorry.'

"'Cato,' she 'low, 'I spec' ma' haid gwine ache if I lie hyah in
dishyere baid mo'n two free day. Whar ma' milk an' co'n pone, Cato?'

"So I des sot de salver down side de baid, suh, an' li'l Miss Dorry she
done set up in de baid, suh, an' hole out one li'l bare arm--"

He laid a wrinkled finger on his lips; his dark face quivered with
mystery and emotion.

"One li'l bare arm," he repeated, "an' I see de sign!"

"What sign?" I stammered.

"De bride-sign on de ring-finger! Yaas, suh. An' I say, 'Whar yo' ring,
Miss Dorry?' An' she 'low ain' nebber wore no ring. An' I say, 'Whar dat
ring, Miss Dorry?'

"Den Miss Dorry look kinder queer, and rub de ghos'-ring on de
bridal-finger.

"'What dat?' she 'low.

"'Dasser ghos'-ring, honey.'

"Den she rub an' rub, but, bless yo' heart, Mars' George! she dess
natch'ly gwine wear dat pink ghos'-ring twill yo' slip de bride-ring
on.... Mars' George! Honey! What de matter, chile?... Is you a-weepin',
Mars' George?"

"Oh, Cato, Cato!" I choked, dropping my head on his shoulder.

"What dey do to mah l'il Mars' George?" he said, soothingly. "'Spec'
some one done git saucy! Huh! Who care? Dar de sign! Dar de ghos'-ring!
Mars' George, yo' is dess boun' to wed, suh! Miss Dorry, she dess boun'
to wed, too--"

"But not with me, Cato, not with me. There's another man coming for Miss
Dorry, Cato. She has promised him."

"Who dat?" he cried. "How come dishyere ghost-ring roun' yo'
weddin'-finger?"

"I don't know," I said; "the chance pressure of a riding-glove, perhaps.
It will fade away, Cato, this ghost-ring, as you call it.... Give me
that rag o' lace; ... dust the powder away, Cato.... There, I'm smiling;
can't you see, you rascal?... And tell Tulip she is right."

"What dat foolish wench done tole you?" he exclaimed, wrathfully.

But I only shook my head impatiently and walked out. Down the hallway I
halted in the light of the sconces and looked at the strange mark on my
finger. It was plainly visible. "A tight glove," I muttered, and walked
on towards the stairs.

From the floor below came a breezy buzz of voices, laughter, the snap of
ivory fans spreading, the whisk and rustle of petticoats. I leaned a
moment over the rail which circled the stair-gallery and looked down.

Unaccustomed cleanliness and wax and candle-light made a pretty
background for all this powdered and silken company swarming below. The
servants and children had gathered ground-pine to festoon the walls;
stair-rail, bronze cannon, pictures, trophies, and windows were all
bright with the aromatic green foliage; enormous bunches of peonies
perfumed the house, and everywhere masses of yellow and white
elder-bloom and swamp-marigold brightened the corners.

Sir Lupus, standing in the hallway with a tall gentleman who wore the
epaulets and the buff-and-blue uniform of a major-general, beckoned me,
and I descended the stairs to make the acquaintance of that noblest and
most generous of soldiers, Philip Schuyler. He held my hand a moment,
scrutinizing me with kindly eyes, and, turning to Sir Lupus, said,
"There are few men to whom my heart surrenders at sight, but your young
kinsman is one of the few, Sir Lupus."

"He's a good boy, General, a brave lad," mumbled Sir Lupus, frowning to
hide his pride. "A bit quick at conclusions, perhaps--eh, George?"

"Too quick, sir," I said, coloring.

"A fault you have already repaired by confession," said the General,
with his kindly smile. "Mr. Ormond, I had the pleasure of receiving Sir
George Covert the day he left for Stanwix, and Sir George mentioned your
desire for a commission."

"I do desire it, sir," I said, quickly.

"Have you served, Mr. Ormond?" he asked, gravely.

"I have seen some trifling service against the Florida savages, sir."

"As officer, of course."

"As officer of our rangers, General."

"You were never wounded?"

"No, sir; ... not severely."

"Oh!... not severely."

"No, sir."

"There are some gentlemen of my acquaintance," said Schuyler, turning to
Sir Lupus, "who might take a lesson in modesty from Mr. Ormond."

"Yes," broke out Sir Lupus--"that pompous ass, Gates."

"General Gates is a loyal soldier," said Schuyler, gravely.

"Who the devil cares?" fumed Sir Lupus. "I call a spade a spade! And I
say he is at the head of that infamous cabal which seeks to disgrace
you. Don't tell me, sir! I'm an older man than you, sir! I've a right to
say it, and I do. Gates is an envious ass, and unfit to hold
your stirrup!"

"This is a painful matter," said Schuyler, in a low voice. "Indiscreet
friendship may make it worse. I regard General Gates as a patriot and a
brother soldier.... Pray let us choose a gayer topic ... friends."

His manner was so noble, his courtesy so charming, that there was no
sting in his snub to Sir Lupus. Even I had heard of the amazing
jealousies and intrigues which had made Schuyler's life
miserable--charges of incompetency, of indifference, of corruption--nay,
some wretched creatures who sought to push Gates into Schuyler's command
even hinted at cowardice and treason. And none could doubt that Gates
knew it and encouraged it, for he had publicly spoken of Schuyler in
slighting and contemptuous terms.

Yet the gentleman whose honor had been the target for these slanderers
never uttered one word against his traducers: and, when a friend asked
him whether he was too proud to defend himself, replied, serenely, "Not
too proud, but too sensible to spread discord in my country's army."

"Lady Schuyler desires to know you," said the General, "for I see her
fan-signal, which I always obey." And he laid his arm on mine as a
father might, and led me across the room to where Dorothy stood with
Lady Schuyler on her right, surrounded by a bevy of bright-eyed girls
and gay young officers.

Dorothy presented me in a quiet voice, and I bowed very low to Lady
Schuyler, who made me an old-time reverence, gave me her fingers to
kiss, and spoke most kindly to me, inquiring about my journey, and how I
liked this Northern climate.

Then Dorothy made me known to those near her, to the pretty Carmichael
twins, whose black eyes brimmed purest mischief; to Miss Haldimand,
whose cold beauty had set the Canadas aflame; and to others of whom I
have little recollection save their names. Christie McDonald and Lysbet
Dirck, two fashionable New York belles, kin to the Schuylers.

As for the men, there was young Paltz Clavarack, ensign in the Half-moon
Regiment, very fine in his orange-faced uniform; and there was Major
Harrow, of the New York line; and a jolly, handsome dare-devil, Captain
Tully O'Neil, of the escort of horse, who hung to Dorothy's skirts and
whispered things that made her laugh. There were others, too, aides in
new uniforms, a medical officer, who bustled about in the role of
everybody's friend; and a parcel of young subalterns, very serious, very
red, and very grave, as though the destiny of empires reposed in their
blue-and-gold despatch pouches.

"I wonder," murmured Dorothy, leaning towards me and speaking behind her
rose-plumed fan--"I wonder why I answered you so."

"Because I deserved it," I muttered,

"Cousin I Cousin!" she said, softly, "you deserve all I can give--all
that I dare not give. You break my heart with kindness."

I stepped to her side; all around us rose the hum of voices, laughter,
the click of spurs, the soft sounds of silken gowns on a polished floor.

"It is you who are kind to me, Dorothy," I whispered, "I know I can
never have you, but you must never doubt my constancy. Say you
will not?"

"Hush!" she whispered; "come to the dining-hall; I must look at the
table to see that all is well done, and there is nobody there.... We can
talk there."

She slipped off through the throng, and I sauntered into the gun-room,
from whence I crossed the hallway and entered the dining-hall. Dorothy
stood inspecting the silver and linen, and giving orders to Cato in a
low voice. Then she dismissed the row of servants and sat down in a
leather chair, resting her forehead in her hands.

"Deary me! Deary me!" she murmured, "how my brain whirls!... I would I
were abed!... I would I were dead!... What was it you said concerning
constancy? Oh, I remember; I am never to doubt your constancy." She
raised her fair head from between her hands.

"Promise you will never doubt it," I whispered.

"I--I never will," she said. "Ask me again for the minuet, dear. I--I
refused everybody--for you."

"Will you walk it with me, Dorothy?"

"Yes--yes, indeed! I told them all I must wait till you asked me."

"Good heavens!" I said, laughing nervously, "you didn't tell them that,
did you?"

She bent her lovely face, and I saw the smile in her eyes glimmering
through unshed tears.

"Yes; I told them that. Captain O'Neil protests he means to call you out
and run you through. And I said you would probably cut off his queue and
tie him up by his spurs if he presumed to any levity. Then he said he'd
tell Sir George Covert, and I said I'd tell him myself and everybody
else that I loved my cousin Ormond better than anybody in the world and
meant to wed him--"

"Dorothy!" I gasped.

"Wed him to the most, beautiful and lovely and desirable maid in
America!"

"And who is that, if it be not yourself?" I asked, amazed.

"It's Maddaleen Dirck, the New York heiress, Lysbet's sister; and you
are to take her to table."

"Dorothy," I said, angrily, "you told me that you desired me to be
faithful to my love for you!"

"I do! Oh, I do!" she said, passionately. "But it is wrong; it is
dreadfully wrong. To be safe we must both wed, and then--God knows!--we
cannot in honor think of one another."

"It will make no difference," I said, savagely.

"Why, of course, it will!" she insisted, in astonishment. "We shall be
married."

"Do you suppose love can be crushed by marriage?" I asked.

"The hope of it can."

"It cannot, Dorothy."

"It must be crushed!" she exclaimed, flushing scarlet. "If we both are
tied by honor, how can we hope? Cousin, I think I must be mad to say it,
but I never see you that I do not hope. We are not safe, I tell you,
spite of all our vows and promises.... You do not need to woo me, you do
not need to persuade me! Ere you could speak I should be yours, now,
this very moment, for a look, a smile--were it not for that pale spectre
of my own self which rises ever before me, stern, inexorable, blocking
every path which leads to you, and leaving only that one path free where
the sign reads 'honor.' ... And I--I am sometimes frightened lest, in an
overwhelming flood of love, that sign be torn away and no spectre of
myself rise to confront me, barring those paths that lead to you....
Don't touch me; Cato is looking at us.... He's gone.... Wait, do not
leave me.... I have been so wretched and unhappy.... I could scarce find
strength and heart to let them dress me, thinking on your face when I
answered you so cruelly.... Oh, cousin! where are our vows now? Where
are the solemn promises we made never to speak of love?... Lovers make
promises like that in story-books--and keep them, too, and die
sanctified, blessing one another and mounting on radiant wings to
heaven.... Where I should find no heaven save in you! Ah, God! that is
the most terrible. That takes my heart away--to die and wake to find
myself still his wife--to live through all eternity without you--and no
hope of you--no hope!... For I could be patient through this earthly
life, losing my youth and yours forever, ... but not after death! No,
no! I cannot.... Better hell with you than endless heaven with him!...
Don't speak to me.... Take your hand from my hand.... Can you not see
that I mean nothing of what I say--that I do not know what I am
saying?... I must go back; I am hostess--a happy one, as you perceive....
Will I never learn to curb my tongue? You must forget every word I
uttered--do you hear me?"

She sprang up in her rustling silks and took a dozen steps towards the
door, then turned.

"Do you hear me?" she said. "I bid you remember every word I
uttered--every word!"

She was gone, leaving me staring at the flowers and silver and the
clustered lights. But I saw them not; for before my eyes floated the
vision of a slender hand, and on the wedding-finger I saw a faint, rosy
circle, as I had seen it there a moment since, when Dorothy dropped her
bare arms on the cloth and laid her head between them.

So it was true; whether for good or ill my cousin wore the ghost-ring
which for ages, Cato says, we Ormonds have worn before the
marriage-ring. There was Ormond blood in Dorothy. Did she wear the sign
as prophecy for that ring Sir George should wed her with? I dared not
doubt it--and yet, why did I also wear the sign?

Then in a flash the forgotten legend of the Maid-at-Arms came back to
me, ringing through my ears in clamorous words:

     "Serene, 'mid love's alarms,
     For all time shall the Maids-at-Arms,
     Wearing the ghost-ring, triumph with their constancy!"

I sprang to the door in my excitement and stared at the picture of the
Maid-at-Arms.

Sweetly the violet eyes of the maid looked back at me, her armor
glittered, her soft throat seemed to swell with the breath of life.

Then I crept nearer, eyes fixed on her wedding-finger. And I saw there a
faint rosy circle as though a golden ring had pressed the snowy flesh.



XIII

THE MAID-AT-ARMS

I remember little of that dinner save that it differed vastly from the
quarrelsome carousal at which the Johnsons and Butlers figured in so
sinister a role, and at which the Glencoe captains disgraced themselves.
But now, if the patroon's wine lent new color to the fair faces round
me, there was no feverish laughter, nothing of brutal license. Healths
were given and drunk with all the kindly ceremony to which I had been
accustomed. At times pattering gusts of hand-clapping followed some
popular toast, such as "Our New Flag," to which General Schuyler
responded in perfect taste, veiling the deep emotions that the toast
stirred in many with graceful allegory tempered by modesty and
self-restraint.

At the former dinner I had had for my neighbors Dorothy and Magdalen
Brant. Now I sat between Miss Haldimand and Maddaleen Dirck, whom I had
for partner, a pretty little thing, who peppered her conversation with
fashionable New York phrases and spiced the intervals with French. And I
remember she assured me that New York was the only city fit to live in
and that she should never survive a prolonged transportation from that
earthly paradise of elegance and fashion. Which made me itch to
go there.

I think, without meaning any unkindness, that Miss Haldimand, the
Canadian beauty, was somewhat surprised that I had not already fallen a
victim to her lovely presence; but, upon reflection, set it down to my
stupidity; for presently she devoted her conversation exclusively to
Ruyven, whose delight and gratitude could not but draw a smile from
those who observed him. I saw Cecile playing the maiden's game with
young Paltz Clavarack, and Lady Schuyler on Sir Lupus's right,
charmingly demure, faintly amused, and evidently determined not to be
shocked by the free bluntness of her host.

The mischievous Carmichael twins had turned the batteries of their eyes
on two solemn, faultlessly dressed subalterns, and had already reduced
them to the verge of capitulation; and busy, bustling Dr. Sleeper
cracked witticisms with all who offered him the fee of their attention,
and the dinner went very well.

Radiant, beautiful beyond word or thought, Dorothy sat, leaning back in
her chair, and the candle-light on the frosty-gold of her hair and on
her bare arms and neck made of her a miracle of celestial loveliness.
And it was pleasant to see the stately General on her right bend beside
her with that grave gallantry which young girls find more grateful than
the privileged badinage of old beaus. At moments her sweet eyes stole
towards me, and always found mine raised to greet her with that silent
understanding which brought the faintest smile to her quiet lips. Once,
above the melodious hum of voices, the word "war" sounded distinctly,
and General Schuyler said:

"In these days of modern weapons of precision and long range, conflicts
are doubly deplorable. In the times of the old match-locks and
blunderbusses and unwieldly weapons weighing more than three times what
our modern light rifles weigh, there was little chance for slaughter.
But now that we have our deadly flint-locks, a battle-field will be a
sad spectacle. Bunker Hill has taught the whole world a lesson that
might not be in vain if it incites us to rid the earth of this wicked
frenzy men call war."

"General," said Sir Lupus, "if weapons were twenty times as quick and
deadly--which is, of course, impossible, thank God!--there would always
be enough men in the world to get up a war, and enjoy it, too!"

"I do not like to believe that," said Schuyler, smiling.

"Wait and see," muttered the patroon. "I'd like to live a hundred years
hence, just to prove I'm right."

"I should rather not live to see it," said the General, with a twinkle
in his small, grave eyes.

Then quietly the last healths were given and pledged; Dorothy rose, and
we all stood while she and Lady Schuyler passed out, followed by the
other ladies; and I had to restrain Ruyven, who had made plans to follow
Marguerite Haldimand. Then we men gathered once more over our port and
walnuts, conversing freely, while the fiddles and bassoons tuned up from
the hallway, and General Schuyler told us pleasantly as much of the
military situation as he desired us to know. And it did amuse me to
observe the solemn subalterns nodding all like wise young owlets, as
though they could, if they only dared, reveal secrets that would
astonish the General himself.

Snuff was passed, offered, and accepted with ceremony befitting; spirits
replaced the port, but General Schuyler drank sparingly, and his
well-trained suite perforce followed his example. So that when it came
time to rejoin our ladies there was no evidence of wandering legs, no
amiably vacant laughter, no loud voices to strike the postprandial
discord at the dance or at the card-tables.

"How did I conduct, cousin?" whispered Ruyven, arm in arm with me as we
entered the long drawing-room. And my response pleasing him, he made off
straight towards Marguerite Haldimand, who viewed his joyous arrival
none too cordially, I thought. Poor Ruyven! Must he so soon close the
gate of Eden behind him?--leaving forever his immortal boyhood sleeping
amid the never-fading flowers.

It was a fascinating and alarming spectacle to see Sir Lupus walking a
minuet with Lady Schuyler, and I marvelled that the gold buttons on his
waistcoat did not fly off in volleys when he strove to bend what once,
perhaps, had been his waist.

Ceremony dictated what we had both forgotten, and General Schuyler led
out Dorothy, who, scarlet in her distress, looked appealingly at me to
see that I understood. And I smiled back to see her sweet face brighten
with gratitude and confidence and a promise to make up to me what the
stern rule of hospitality had deprived us of.

So it was that I had her for the Sir Roger de Coverley, and after that
for a Delaware reel, which all danced with a delightful abandon, even
Miss Haldimand unbending like a goddess surprised to find a pleasure in
our mortal capers. And it was a pretty sight to see the ladies pass,
gliding daintily under the arch of glittering swords, led by Lady
Schuyler and Dorothy in laughing files, while the fiddle-bows whirred,
and the music of bassoon and hautboys blended and ended in a final
mellow crash. Then breathless voices rose, and skirts swished and French
heels tapped the polished floor and solemn subalterns stalked about
seeking ices and lost buckles and mislaid fans; and a faint voice said,
"Oh!" when a jewelled garter was found, and a very red subaltern said,
"Honi soit!" and everybody laughed.

Presently I missed the General, and, a moment later, Dorothy. As I stood
in the hallway, seeking for her, came Cecile, crying out that they were
to have pictures and charades, and that General Schuyler, who was to be
a judge, awaited me in the gun-room.

The door of the gun-room was closed. I tapped and entered.

The General sat at the mahogany table, leaning back in his arm-chair;
opposite sat Dorothy, bare elbows on the table, fingers clasped.
Standing by the General, arms folded, Jack Mount loomed a colossal
figure in his beaded buckskins.

[Illustration: "JACK MOUNT LOOMED A COLOSSAL FIGURE IN HIS BEADED
BUCKSKINS".]

"Ah, Mr. Ormond!" said the General, as I closed the door quietly behind
me; "pray be seated. They are to have pictures and charades, you know; I
shall not keep Miss Dorothy and yourself very long."

I seated myself beside Dorothy, exchanging a smile with Mount.

"Now," said the General, dropping his voice to a lower tone, "what was
it you saw in the forest to-day?"

So Mount had already reported the apparition of the painted savage!

I told what I had seen, describing the Indian in detail, and repeating
word for word his warning message to Mount.

The General looked inquiringly at Dorothy. "I understand," he said,
"that you know as much about the Iroquois as the Iroquois do
themselves."

"I think I do," she said, simply.

"May I ask how you acquired your knowledge, Miss Dorothy?"

"There have always been Iroquois villages along our boundary until last
spring, when the Mohawks left with Guy Johnson," she said. "I have
always played with Iroquois children; I went to school with Magdalen
Brant. I taught among our Mohawks and Oneidas when I was thirteen. Then
I was instructed by sachems and I learned what the witch-drums say, and
I need use no signs in the six languages or the clan dialects, save
only when I speak with the Lenni-Lenape. Maybe, too, the Hurons and
Algonquins have words that I know not, for many Tuscaroras do not
understand them save by sign."

"I wish that some of my interpreters had your knowledge, or a fifth of
it," said the General, smiling. "Tell me, Miss Dorothy, who was that
Indian and what did that paint mean?"

"The Indian was Joseph Brant, called Thayendanegea, which means, 'He who
holds many peoples together,' or, in plainer words, 'A bundle
of sticks.'"

"You are certain it was Brant?"

"Yes. He has dined at this table with us. He is an educated man." She
hesitated, looking down thoughtfully at her own reflection in the
polished table. "The paint he wore was not war-paint. The signs on his
body were emblems of the secret clan called the 'False-Faces.'"

The General looked up at Jack Mount.

"What did Stoner say?" he asked.

"Stoner reports that all the Iroquois are making ready for some unknown
rite, sir. He saw pyramids of flat river-stones set up on hills and he
saw smoke answering smoke from the Adirondack peaks to the
Mayfield hills."

"What did Timothy Murphy observe?" asked Schuyler, watching Mount
intently.

"Murphy brings news of their witch, Catrine Montour, sir. He. chased her
till he dropped--like all the rest of us--but she went on and on a
running, hop! tap! hop! tap! and patter, patter, patter! It stirs my
hair to think on her, and I'm no coward, sir. We call her 'The
Toad-woman.'"

"I'll make you chief of scouts if you catch her," said the General,
sharply.

"Very good, sir," replied Mount, pulling a wry face, which made us all
laugh.

"It has been reported to me," said the General, quietly, "that the
Butlers, father and son, are in this county to attend a secret council;
and that, with the help of Catrine Montour, they expect to carry the
Mohawk nation with them as well as the Cayugas and the Senecas.

"It has further been reported to me by the Palatine scout that the
Onondagas are wavering, that the Oneidas are disposed to stand our
friends, that the Tuscaroras are anxious to remain neutral.

"Now, within a few days, news has reached me that these three doubtful
nations are to be persuaded by an unknown woman who is, they say, the
prophetess of the False-Faces."

He paused, looking straight at Dorothy.

"From your knowledge," he said, slowly, "tell me who is this unknown
woman."

"Do you not know, sir?" she asked, simply.

"Yes, I think I do, child. It is Magdalen Brant."

"Yes," she said, quietly; "from childhood she stood as prophetess of the
False-Faces. She is an educated girl, sweet, lovable, honorable, and
sincere. She has been petted by the fine ladies of New York, of
Philadelphia, of Albany. Yet she is partly Mohawk."

"Not that charming girl whom I had to dinner?" I cried, astonished.

"Yes, cousin," she said, tranquilly. "You are surprised? Why? You should
see, as I have seen, pupils from Dr. Wheelock's school return to their
tribes and, in a summer, sink to the level of the painted sachem, every
vestige of civilization vanished with the knowledge of the tongue that
taught it."

"I have seen that," said Schuyler, frowning.

"And I--by your leave, sir--I have seen it, too!" said Mount, savagely.
"There may be some virtue in the rattlesnake; some folk eat 'em! But
there is none in an Indian, not even stewed--"

"That will do," said the General, ignoring the grim jest. "Do you speak
the Iroquois tongues, or any of them?" he asked, wheeling around to
address me.

"I speak Tuscarora, sir," I replied. "The Tuscaroras understand the
other five nations, but not the Hurons or Algonquins."

"What tongue is used when the Iroquois meet?" he asked Dorothy.

"Out of compliment to the youngest nation they use the Tuscarora
language," she said.

The General rose, bowing to Dorothy with a charming smile.

"I must not keep you from your charades any longer," he said, conducting
her to the door and thanking her for the great help and profit he had
derived from her knowledge of the Iroquois.

He had not dismissed us, so we awaited his return; and presently he
appeared, calm, courteous, and walked up to me, laying a kindly hand on
my shoulder.

"I want an officer who understands Tuscarora and who has felt the bite
of an Indian bullet," he said, earnestly.

I stood silent and attentive.

"I want that officer to find the False-Faces' council-fire and listen to
every word said, and report to me. I want him to use every endeavor to
find this woman, Magdalen Brant, and use every art to persuade her to
throw all her influence with the Onondagas, Oneidas, and Tuscaroras for
their strict neutrality in this coming war. The service I require may be
dangerous and may not. I do not know. Are you ready, Captain Ormond?"

"Ready, sir!" I said, steadily.

He drew a parchment from his breast-pocket and laid it in my hands. It
was my commission in the armies of the United States of America as
captain in the militia battalion of Morgan's regiment of riflemen, and
signed by our Governor, George Clinton.

"Do you accept this commission, Mr. Ormond?" he asked, regarding me
pleasantly.

"I do, sir."

Sir Lupus's family Bible lay on the window-sill; the General bade Mount
fetch it, and he did so. The General placed it before me, and I laid my
hand upon it, looking him in the face. Then, in a low voice, he
administered the oath, and I replied slowly but clearly, ending, "So
help me God," and kissed the Book.

"Sit down, sir," said the General; and when I was seated he told me how
the Continental Congress in July of 1775 had established three Indian
departments; how that he, as chief commissioner of this Northern
department, which included the Six Nations of the Iroquois confederacy,
had summoned the national council, first at German Flatts, then at
Albany; how he and the Reverend Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Dean had done all
that could be done to keep the Iroquois neutral, but that they had not
fully prevailed against the counsels of Guy Johnson and Brant, though
the venerable chief of the Mohawk upper castle had seemed inclined to
neutrality. He told me of General Herkimer's useless conference with
Brant at Unadilla, where that chief had declared that "The King of
England's belts were still lodged with the Mohawks, and that the Mohawks
could not violate their pledges."

"I think we have lost the Mohawks," said the General, thoughtfully.
"Perhaps also the Senecas and Cayugas; for this she-devil, Catrine
Montour, is a Huron-Seneca, and her nation will follow her. But, if we
can hold the three other nations back, it will be a vast gain to our
cause--not that I desire or would permit them to do battle for me,
though our Congress has decided to enlist such Indians as wish to serve;
but because there might be some thousand warriors the less to hang on
our flanks and do the dreadful work among the people of this country
which these people so justly fear."

He rose, nodding to me, and I followed him to the door.

"Now," he said, "you know what you are to do."

"When shall I set out, sir?" I asked.

He smiled, saying, "I shall give you no instructions, Captain Ormond; I
shall only concern myself with results."

"May I take with me whom I please?"

"Certainly, sir."

I looked at Mount, who had been standing motionless by the door, an
attentive spectator.

"I will take the rifleman Mount," I said, "unless he is detailed for
other service--"

"Take him, Mr. Ormond. When do you wish to start? I ask it because there
is a gentleman at Broadalbin who has news for you, and you must pass
that way."

"May I ask who that is?" I inquired, respectfully.

"The gentleman is Sir George Covert, captain on my personal staff, and
now under your orders."

"I shall set out to-night, sir," I said, abruptly; then stepped back to
let him pass me into the hallway beyond.

"Saddle my mare and make every preparation," I said to Mount. "When you
are ready lead the horses to the stockade gate.... How long will
you take?"

"An hour, sir, for rubbing down, saddling, and packing fodder,
ammunition, and provisions."

"Very well," I said, soberly, and walked out to the long drawing-room,
where the company had taken chairs and were all whispering and watching
a green baize curtain which somebody had hung across the farther end
of the room.

"Charades and pictures," whispered Cecile, at my elbow. "I guessed two,
and Mr. Clavarack says it was wonderful."

"It certainly was," I said, gravely. "Where is Ruyven? Oh, sitting with
Miss Haldimand? Cecile, would you ask Miss Haldimand's indulgence for a
few moments? I must speak to Sir Lupus and to you and Ruyven."

I stepped back of the rows of chairs to where Sir Lupus sat in his great
arm-chair by the doorway; and in another moment Cecile and Ruyven came
up, the latter polite but scarcely pleased to be torn away from his
first inamorata.

"Sir Lupus, and you, Cecile and Ruyven," I said, in a low voice, "I am
going on a little journey, and shall be absent for a few days, perhaps
longer. I wish to take this opportunity to say good-bye, and to thank
you all for your great kindness to me."

"Where the devil are you going?" snapped Sir Lupus.

"I am not at liberty to say, sir; perhaps General Schuyler may tell
you."

The patroon looked up at me sorrowfully. "George! George!" he said, "has
it touched us already?"

"Yes, sir," I muttered.

"What?" whispered Cecile.

"Father means the war. Our cousin Ormond is going to the war," exclaimed
Ruyven, softly.

There was a pause; then Cecile flung both arms around my neck and kissed
me in choking silence. The patroon's great, fat hand sought mine and
held it; Ruyven placed his arm about my shoulder. Never had I imagined
that I could love these kinsmen of mine so dearly.

"There's always a bed for you here; remember that, my lad," growled the
patroon.

"Take me, too," sniffed Ruyven.

"Eh! What?" cried the patroon. "I'll take you; oh yes--over my knee, you
impudent puppy! Let me catch you sneaking off to this war and I'll--"

Ruyven relapsed into silence, staring at me in troubled fascination.

"The house is yours, George," grunted the patroon. "Help yourself to
what you need for your journey."

"Thank you, sir; say good-bye to the children, kiss them all for me,
Cecile. And don't run away and get married until I come back."

A stifled snivel was my answer.

Then into the room shuffled old Cato, and began to extinguish the
candles; and I saw the green curtain twitch, and everybody
whispered "Ah-h!"

General Schuyler arose in the dim light when the last candle was blown
out. "You are to guess the title of this picture!" he said, in his even,
pleasant voice. "It is a famous picture, familiar to all present, I
think, and celebrated in the Old World as well as in the New.... Draw
the curtain, Cato!"

Suddenly the curtain parted, and there stood the living, breathing
figure of the "Maid-at-Arms." Her thick, gold hair clouded her cheeks,
her eyes, blue as wood-violets, looked out sweetly from the shadowy
background, her armor glittered.

A stillness fell over the dark room; slowly the green curtains closed;
the figure vanished.

There was a roar of excited applause in my ears as I stumbled forward
through the darkness, groping my way towards the dim gun-room through
which she must pass to regain her chamber by the narrow stairway which
led to the attic.

She was not there; I waited a moment, listening in the darkness, and
presently I heard, somewhere overhead, a faint ringing sound and the
deadened clash of armed steps on the garret floor.

"Dorothy!" I called.

The steps ceased, and I mounted the steep stairway and came out into the
garret, and saw her standing there, her armor outlined against the
window and the pale starlight streaming over her steel shoulder-pieces.

I shall never forget her as she stood looking at me, her steel-clad
figure half buried in the darkness, yet dimly apparent in its youthful
symmetry where the starlight fell on the curve of cuisse and greave,
glimmering on the inlaid gorget with an unearthly light, and stirring
pale sparks like fire-flies tangled in her hair.

"Did I please you?" she whispered. "Did I not surprise you? Cato scoured
the armor for me; it is the same armor she wore, they say--the
Maid-at-Arms. And it fits me like my leather clothes, limb and body.
Hark!... They are applauding yet! But I do not mean to spoil the magic
picture by a senseless repetition.... And some are sure to say a ghost
appeared.... Why are you so silent?... Did I not please you?"

She flung casque and sword on the floor, cleared her white forehead from
its tumbled veil of hair; then bent nearer, scanning my eyes closely.

"Is aught amiss?" she asked, under her breath.

I turned and slowly traversed the upper hallway to her chamber door, she
walking beside me in silence, striving to read my face.

"Let your maids disarm you," I whispered; "then dress and tap at my
door. I shall be waiting."

"Tell me now, cousin."

"No; dress first."

"It will take too long to do my hair. Oh, tell me! You have frightened
me."

"It is nothing to frighten you," I said. "Put off your armor and come to
my door. Will you promise?"

"Ye-es," she faltered; and I turned and hastened to my own chamber, to
prepare for the business which lay before me.

I dressed rapidly, my thoughts in a whirl; but I had scarcely slung
powder-horn and pouch, and belted in my hunting-shirt, when there came a
rapping at the door, and I opened it and stepped out into the
dim hallway.

At sight of me she understood, and turned quite white, standing there in
her boudoir-robe of China silk, her heavy, burnished hair in two loose
braids to her waist.

In silence I lifted her listless hands and kissed the fingers, then the
cold wrists and palms. And I saw the faint circlet of the ghost-ring on
her bridal finger, and touched it with my lips.

Then, as I stepped past her, she gave a low cry, hiding her face in her
hands, and leaned back against the wall, quivering from head to foot.

"Don't go!" she sobbed. "Don't go--don't go!"

And because I durst not, for her own sake, turn or listen, I reeled on,
seeing nothing, her faint cry ringing in my ears, until darkness and a
cold wind struck me in the face, and I saw horses waiting, black in the
starlight, and the gigantic form of a man at their heads, fringed cape
blowing in the wind.

"All ready?" I gasped.

"All is ready and the night fine! We ride by Broadalbin, I think....
Whoa! back up! you long-eared ass! D'ye think to smell a Mohawk?... Or
is it your comrades on the picket-rope that bedevil you?... Look at
the troop-horses, sir, all a-rolling on their backs in the sand, four
hoofs waving in the air. It's easier on yon sentry than when they're all
a-squealin' and a-bitin'--This way, sir. We swing by the bush and pick
up the Iroquois trail 'twixt the Hollow and Mayfield."



XIV

ON DUTY

As we galloped into Broadalbin Bush a house on our right loomed up black
and silent, and I saw shutters and doors swinging wide open, and the
stars shining through. There was something sinister in this stark and
tenantless homestead, whose void casements stared, like empty
eye-sockets.

"They have gone to the Middle Fort--all of them except the Stoners,"
said Mount, pushing his horse up beside mine. "Look, sir! See what this
red terror has already done to make a wilderness of County Try on--and
not a blow struck yet!"

We passed another house, doorless, deserted; and as I rode abreast of
it, to my horror I saw two shining eyes staring out at me from the
empty window.

"A wolf--already!" muttered Mount, tugging at his bridle as his horse
sheered off, snorting; and I saw something run across the front steps
and drop into the shadows.

The roar of the Kennyetto sounded nearer. Woods gave place to
stump-fields in which the young corn sprouted, silvered by the stars.
Across a stony pasture we saw a rushlight burning in a doorway; and,
swinging our horses out across a strip of burned stubble, we came
presently to Stoner's house and heard the noise of the stream rushing
through the woods below.

I saw Sir George Covert immediately; he was sitting on a log under the
window, dressed in his uniform, a dark military cloak mantling his
shoulders and knees. When he recognized me he rose and came to my side.

"Well, Ormond," he said, quietly, "it's a comfort to see you. Leave your
horses with Elerson. Who is that with you--oh, Jack Mount? These are the
riflemen, Elerson and Murphy--Morgan's men, you know."

The two riflemen saluted me with easy ceremony and sauntered over to
where Mount was standing at our horses' heads.

"Hello, Catamount Jack," said Elerson, humorously. "Where 'd ye steal
the squaw-buckskins? Look at the macaroni, Tim--all yellow and
purple fringe!"

Mount surveyed the riflemen in their suits of brown holland and belted
rifle-frocks.

"Dave Elerson, you look like a Quakeress in a Dutch jerkin," he
observed.

"'Tis the nate turrn to yere leg he grudges ye," said Murphy to Elerson.
"Wisha, Dave, ye've the legs av a beau!"

"Bow-legs, Dave," commented Mount. "It's not your fault, lad. I've seen
'em run from the Iroquois as fast as Tim's--"

The bantering reply of the big Irishman was lost to me as Sir George led
me out of earshot, one arm linked in mine.

I told him briefly of my mission, of my new rank in the army. He
congratulated me warmly, and asked, in his pleasant way, for news of the
manor, yet did not name Dorothy, which surprised me to the verge of
resentment. Twice I spoke of her, and he replied courteously, yet seemed
nothing eager to learn of her beyond what I volunteered.

And at last I said: "Sir George, may I not claim a kinsman's privilege
to wish you joy in your great happiness?"

"What happiness?" he asked, blankly; then, in slight confusion, added:
"You speak of my betrothal to your cousin Dorothy. I am stupid beyond
pardon, Ormond; I thank you for your kind wishes.... I suppose Sir Lupus
told you," he added, vaguely.

"My cousin Dorothy told me," I said.

"Ah! Yes--yes, indeed. But it is all in the future yet, Ormond." He
moved on, switching the long weeds with a stick he had found. "All in
the future," he murmured, absently--"in fact, quite remote, Ormond....
By-the-way, you know why you were to meet me?"

"No, I don't," I replied, coldly.

"Then I'll tell you. The General is trying to head off Walter Butler and
arrest him. Murphy and Elerson have just heard that Walter Butler's
mother and sister, and a young lady, Magdalen Brant--you met her at
Varicks'--are staying quietly at the house of a Tory named Beacraft. We
must strive to catch him there; and, failing that, we must watch
Magdalen Brant, that she has no communication with the Iroquois." He
hesitated, head bent. "You see, the General believes that this young
girl can sway the False-Faces to peace or war. She was once their
pet--as a child.... It seems hard to believe that this lovely and
cultivated young girl could revert to such savage customs.... And yet
Murphy and Elerson credit it, and say that she will surely appear at the
False-Faces' rites.... It is horrible, Ormond; she is a sweet child--by
Heaven, she would turn a European court with her wit and beauty!"

"I concede her beauty," I said, uneasy at his warm praise, "but as to
her wit, I confess I scarcely exchanged a dozen words with her that
night, and so am no judge."

"Ah!" he said, with an absent-minded stare.

"I naturally devoted myself to my cousin Dorothy," I added, irritated,
without knowing why.

"Quite so--quite so," he mused. "As I was saying, it seems cruel to
suspect Magdalen Brant, but the General believes she can sway the
Oneidas and Tuscaroras.... It is a ghastly idea. And if she does attempt
this thing, it will be through the infernal machinations and devilish
persuasions of the Butlers--mark that, Ormond!"

He turned short in his tracks and made a fierce gesture with his stick.
It broke short, and he flung the splintered ends into the darkness.

"Why," he said, warmly, "there is not a gentler, sweeter disposition in
the world than Magdalen Brant's, if no one comes a-tampering to wake the
Iroquois blood in her. These accursed Butlers seem inspired by hell
itself--and Guy Johnson!--What kind of a man is that, to take this young
girl from Albany, where she had forgotten what a council-fire meant, and
bring her here to these savages--sacrifice her!--undo all those years of
culture and education!--rouse in her the dormant traditions and passions
which she had imbibed with her first milk, and which she forgot when she
was weaned! That is the truth, I tell you! I know, sir! It was my uncle
who took her from Guy Park and sent her to my aunt Livingston. She had
the best of schooling; she was reared in luxury; she had every advantage
that could be gained in Albany; my aunt took her to London that she
might acquire those graces of deportment which we but roughly
imitate.... Is it not sickening to see Guy Johnson and Sir John exercise
their power of relationship and persuade her from a good home back to
this?... Think of it, Ormond!"

"I do think of it," said I. "It is wrong--it is cruel and shameful!"

"It is worse," said Sir George, bitterly. "Scarce a year has she been
at Guy Park, yet to-day she is in full sympathy with Guy and Sir John
and her dusky kinsman, Brant. Outwardly she is a charming, modest maid,
and I do not for an instant mean you to think she is not chaste! The
Irish nation is no more famed for its chastity than the Mohawk, but I
know that she listens when the forest calls--listens with savant ears,
Ormond, and her dozen drops of dusky blood set her pulses flying to the
free call of the Wolf clan!"

"Do you know her well?" I asked.

"I? No. I saw her at my aunt Livingston's. It was the other night that I
talked long with her--for the first time in my life."

He stood silent, knee-deep in the dewy weeds, hand worrying his
sword-hilt, long cloak flung back.

"You have no idea how much of a woman she is," he said, vaguely.

"In that case," I replied, "you might influence her."

He raised his thoughtful face to the stars, studying the Twin Pointers.

"May I try?" he asked.

"Try? Yes, try, in Heaven's name, Sir George! If she must speak to the
Oneidas, persuade her to throw her influence for peace, if you can. At
all events, I shall know whether or not she goes to the fire, for I am
charged by the General to find the False-Faces and report to him every
word said.... Do you speak Tuscarora, Sir George?"

"No; only Mohawk," he said. "How are you going to find the False-Faces'
meeting-place?"

"If Magdalen Brant goes, I go," said I. "And while I'm watching her,
Jack Mount is to range, and track any savage who passes the Iroquois
trail.... What do you mean to do with Murphy and Elerson?"

"Elerson rides back to the manor with our horses; we've no further use
for them here. Murphy follows me.... And I think we should be on our
way," he added, impatiently.

We walked back to the house, where old man Stoner and his two big boys
stood with our riflemen, drinking flip.

"Elerson," I said, "ride my mare and lead the other horses back to
Varicks'. Murphy, you will pilot us to Beacraft's. Jack, go forward
with Murphy."

Old Stoner wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, bit into a twist
of tobacco, spat derisively, and said: "This pup Beacraft swares he'll
lift my haar 'fore he gits through with me! Threatened men live long.
Kindly tell him me an' my sons is to hum. Sir George."

The big, lank boys laughed, and winked at me as I passed.

"Good trail an' many skelps to ye!" said old Stoner. "If ye see Francy
McCraw, jest tell him thar's a rope an' a apple-tree waitin' fur him
down to Fundy's Bush!"

"Tell Danny Redstock an' Billy Bones that the Stoner boys is smellin'
almighty close on their trail!" called out the elder youth.

Elerson, in his saddle, gathered the bridles that Mount handed him and
rode off into the darkness, leading Mount's horse and Sir George's at a
trot. We filed off due west, Murphy and Mount striding in the lead, the
noise of the river below us on our left. A few rods and we swung south,
then west into a wretched stump-road, which Sir George said was the
Mayfield road and part of the Sacandaga trail.

The roar of the Kennyetto accompanied us, then for a while was lost in
the swaying murmur of the pines. Twice we passed trodden carrying-places
before the rushing of the river sounded once more far below us in a
gorge; and we descended into a hollow to a ford from which an Indian
trail ran back to the north. This was the Balston trail, which joined
the Fish-House road; and Sir George said it was the trail I should have
followed had it not been necessary for me to meet him at Fonda's Bush to
relieve him of his horse.

Now, journeying rapidly west, our faces set towards the Mayfield hills,
we passed two or three small, cold brooks, on stepping-stones, where the
dark sky, set with stars, danced in the ripples. Once, on a cleared
hill, we saw against the sky the dim bulk of a lonely barn; then nothing
more fashioned by human hands until, hours later, we found Murphy and
Mount standing beside some rough pasture bars in the forest. How they
had found them in the darkness of the woods--for we had long since left
the stump-road--I do not know; but the bars were there, and a brush
fence; and Murphy whispered that, beyond, a cow-path led to
Beacraft's house.

Now, wary of ambuscade, we moved on, rifles primed and cocked,
traversing a wet path bowered by willow and alder, until we reached a
cornfield, fenced with split rails. The path skirted this, continuing
under a line of huge trees, then ascended a stony little hill, on which
a shadowy house stood.

"Beacraft's," whispered Murphy.

Sir George suggested that we surround the house and watch it till dawn;
so Mount circled the little hill and took station in the north, Sir
George moved eastward, Murphy crept to the west, and I sat down under
the last tree in the lane, cocked rifle on my knees, pan sheltered under
my round cap of doeskin.

Sunrise was to be our signal to move forward. The hours dragged; the
stars grew no paler; no sign of life appeared in the ghostly house save
when the west wind brought to me a faint scent of smoke, invisible as
yet above the single chimney.

But after a long while I knew that dawn was on the way towards the
western hills, for a bird twittered restlessly in the tree above me, and
I began to feel, rather than hear, a multitude of feathered stirrings
all about me in the darkness.

Would dawn never come? The stars seemed brighter than ever--no, one on
the eastern horizon twinkled paler; the blue-black sky had faded;
another star paled; others lost their diamond lustre; a silvery pallor
spread throughout the east, while the increasing chorus of the birds
grew in my ears.

Then a cock-crow rang out, close by, and the bird o' dawn's clear
fanfare roused the feathered world to a rushing outpour of song.

All the east was yellow now; a rose-light quivered behind the forest
like the shimmer of a hidden fire; then a blinding shaft of light fell
across the world.

Springing to my feet, I shouldered my rifle and started across the
pasture, ankle deep in glittering dew; and as I advanced Sir George
appeared, breasting the hill from the east; Murphy's big bulk loomed in
the west; and, as we met before the door of the house, Jack Mount
sauntered around the corner, chewing a grass-stem, his long, brown rifle
cradled in his arm.

"Rap on the door, Mount," I said. Mount gave a round double rap, chewed
his grass-stem, considered, then rapped again, humming to himself in an
under-tone:

     "Is the old fox in?
     Is the old fox out?
     Is the old fox gone to Glo-ry?
     Oh, he's just come in,
     But he's just gone out,
     And I hope you like my sto-ry!
     Tink-a-diddle-diddle-diddle,
     Tink-a-diddle-diddle-dum--"

"Rap louder," I said.

Mount obeyed, chewed reflectively, and scratched his ear.

     "Is the Tory in?
     Is the Tory out?
     Is the Tory gone to Glo-ry?
     Oh, he's just come in.
     But he's just gone out--"

"Knock louder," I repeated.

Murphy said he could drive the door in with his gun-butt; I shook my
head.

"Somebody's coming," observed Mount--

     "Tink-a-diddle-diddle--"

The door opened and a lean, dark-faced man appeared, dressed in his
smalls and shirt. He favored us with a sour look, which deepened to a
scowl when he recognized Mount, who saluted him cheerfully.

"Hello, Beacraft, old cock! How's the mad world usin' you these palmy,
balmy days?"

"Pretty well," said Beacraft, sullenly.

"That's right, that's right," cried Mount. "My friends and I thought
we'd just drop around. Ain't you glad, Beacraft, old buck?"

"Not very," said Beacraft.

"Not very!" echoed Mount, in apparent dismay and sorrow. "Ain't you
enj'yin' good health, Beacraft?"

"I'm well, but I'm busy," said the man, slowly.

"So are we, so are we," cried Mount, with a brisk laugh. "Come in,
friends; you must know my old acquaintance Beacraft better; a King's
man, gentlemen, so we can all feel at home now!"

For a moment Beacraft looked as though he meant to shut the door in our
faces, but Mount's huge bulk was in the way, and we all followed his
lead, entering a large, unplastered room, part kitchen, part bedroom.

"A King's man," repeated Mount, cordially, rubbing his hands at the
smouldering fire and looking around in apparent satisfaction. "A King's
man; what the nasty rebels call a 'Tory,' gentlemen. My! Ain't this nice
to be all together so friendly and cosey with my old friend Beacraft?
Who's visitin' ye, Beacraft? Anybody sleepin' up-stairs, old friend?"

Beacraft looked around at us, and his eyes rested on Sir George.

"Who be you?" he asked.

"This is my friend, Mr. Covert," said Mount, fairly sweating cordiality
from every pore--"my dear old friend, Mr. Covert--"

"Oh," said Beacraft, "I thought he was Sir George Covert.... And yonder
stands your dear old friend Timothy Murphy, I suppose?"

"Exactly," smiled Mount, rubbing his palms in appreciation.

The man gave me an evil look.

"I don't know you," he said, "but I could guess your business." And to
Mount: "What do you want?"

"We want to know," said I, "whether Captain Walter Butler is lodging
here?"

"He was," said Beacraft, grimly; "he left yesterday."

     "And I hope you like my sto-ry!"

hummed Mount, strolling about the room, peeping into closets and
cupboards, poking under the bed with his rifle, and finally coming to a
halt at the foot of the stairs with his head on one side, like a
jay-bird immersed in thought.

Murphy, who had quietly entered the cellar, returned empty-handed, and,
at a signal from me, stepped outside and seated himself on a
chopping-block in the yard, from whence he commanded a view of the house
and vicinity.

"Now, Mr. Beacraft," I said, "whoever lodges above must come down; and
it would be pleasanter for everybody if you carried the invitation."

"Do you propose to violate the privacy of my house?" he asked.

"I certainly do."

"Where is your warrant of authority?" he inquired, fixing his
penetrating eyes on mine.

"I have my authority from the General commanding this department. My
instructions are verbal--my warrant is military necessity. I fear that
this explanation must satisfy you."

"It does not," he said, doggedly.

"That is unfortunate," I observed. "I will give you one more chance to
answer my question. What person or persons are on the floor above?"

"Captain Butler was there; he departed yesterday with his mother and
sister," replied Beacraft, maliciously.

"Is that all?"

"Miss Brant is there," he muttered.

I glanced at Sir George, who had risen to pace the floor, throwing back
his military cloak. At sight of his uniform Beacraft's small eyes seemed
to dart fire.

"What were you doing when we knocked?" I inquired.

"Cooking," he replied, tersely.

"Then cook breakfast for us all--and Miss Brant," I said. "Mount, help
Mr. Beacraft with the corn-bread and boil those eggs. Sir George, I want
Murphy to stay outside, so if you would spread the cloth--"

"Of course," he said, nervously; and I started up the flimsy wooden
stairway, which shook as I mounted. Beacraft's malignant eyes followed
me for a moment, then he thrust his hands into his pockets and glowered
at Mount, who, whistling cheerfully, squatted before the fireplace,
blowing the embers with a pair of home-made bellows.

On the floor above, four doors faced the narrow passage-way. I knocked
at one. A gentle, sleepy voice answered:

"Very well."

Then, in turn, I entered each of the remaining rooms and searched. In
the first room there was nothing but a bed and a bit of mirror framed in
pine; in the second, another bed and a clothes-press which contained an
empty cider-jug and a tattered almanac; in the third room a mattress lay
on the floor, and beside it two ink-horns, several quills, and a sheet
of blue paper, such as comes wrapped around a sugar-loaf. The sheet of
paper was pinned to the floor with pine splinters, as though a
draughtsman had prepared it for drawing some plan, but there were no
lines on it, and I was about to leave it when a peculiar odor in the
close air of the room brought me back to re-examine it on both sides.

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.

"Fill your pipes, lads," I said. "Sit out in the sun yonder. Mr.
Beacraft may have some excellent stories to tell you."

"I must do my work," said Beacraft, angrily, but Mount and Murphy each
took an arm and led the unwilling man across the strip of potato-hills
to a grassy knoll under a big oak, from whence a view of the house and
clearing could be obtained. When I entered the house again, Sir George
was busy removing soiled plates and arranging covers for three; and I
sat down close to the fire, drawing the square of blue paper from my
pouch and spreading it to the blaze. When it was piping hot I laid it
upon my knees and examined the design. What I had before me was a
well-drawn map of the Kingsland district, made in white outline, showing
trails and distances between farms. And, out of fifty farms marked,
forty-three bore the word "Rebel," and were ornamented by little
red hatchets.

Also, to every house was affixed the number, sex, and age of its
inhabitants, even down to the three-months babe in the cradle, the
number of cattle, the amount of grain in the barns.

Further, the Kingsland district of the county was divided into three
sections, the first marked "McCraw's Operations," the second "Butler and
Indians," the third "St. Leger's Indians and Royal Greens." The paper
was signed by Uriah Beacraft.

After a few moments I folded this carefully prepared plan for deliberate
and wholesale murder and placed it in my wallet.

Sir George looked up at me with a question in his eyes. I nodded,
saying: "We have enough to arrest Beacraft. If you cannot persuade
Magdalen Brant, we must arrest her, too. You had best use all your art,
Sir George."

"I will do what I can," he said, gravely.

A moment later a light step sounded on the stairs; we both sprang to our
feet and removed our hats. Magdalen Brant appeared, fresh and sweet as a
rose-peony on a dewy morning.

"Sir George!" she exclaimed, in flushed dismay--"and you, too, Mr.
Ormond!"

Sir George bowed, laughingly, saying that our journey had brought us so
near her that we could not neglect to pay our respects.

"Where is Mr. Beacraft?" she said, bewildered, and at the same moment
caught sight of him through the open doorway, seated under the oak-tree,
apparently in delightful confab with Murphy and Mount.

"I do not quite understand," she said, gazing steadily at Sir George.
"We are King's people here. And you--"

She looked at his blue-and-buff uniform, shaking her head, then glanced
at me in my fringed buckskins.

"I trust this war cannot erase the pleasant memories of other days, Miss
Brant," said Sir George, easily. "May we not have one more hour together
before the storm breaks?"

"What storm, Sir George?" she asked, coloring up.

"The British invasion," I said. "We have chosen our colors; your kinsmen
have chosen theirs. It is a political, not a personal difference, Miss
Brant, and we may honorably clasp hands until our hands are needed for
our hilts."

Sir George, graceful and debonair, conducted her to her place at the
rough table; I served the hasty-pudding, making a jest of the situation.
And presently we were eating there in the sunshine of the open doorway,
chatting over the dinner at Varicks', each outvying the others to make
the best of an unhappy and delicate situation.

Sir George spoke of the days in Albany spent with his aunt, and she
responded in sensitive reserve, which presently softened under his
gentle courtesy, leaving her beautiful, dark eyes a trifle dim and her
scarlet mouth quivering,

"It is like another life," she said. "It was too lovely to last. Ah,
those dear people in Albany, and their great kindness to me! And now I
shall never see them again."

"Why not?" asked Sir George. "My aunt Livingston would welcome you."

"I cannot abandon my own kin, Sir George," she said, raising her
distressed eyes to his.

"There are moments when it is best to sever such ties," I observed.

"Perhaps," she said, quickly; "but this is not the moment, Mr. Ormond.
My kinsmen are exiled fugitives, deprived of their own lands by those
who have risen in rebellion against our King. How can I, whom they loved
in their prosperity, leave them in their adversity?"

"You speak of Guy Johnson and Sir John?" I asked.

"Yes; and of those brave people whose blood flows in my veins," she
said, quietly. "Where is the Mohawk nation now, Sir George? This is
their country, secured to them by solemn oath and covenant, inviolate
for all time. Their belts lie with the King of England; his belts lie
still with my people, the Mohawks. Where are they?"

"Fled to Oswego with Sir John," I said.

"And homeless!" she added, in a low, tense voice--"homeless, without
clothing, without food, save what Guy Johnson gives them; their women
and children utterly helpless, the graves of their fathers abandoned,
their fireplace at Onondaga cold, and the brands scattered for the first
time in a thousand years I This have you Boston people done--done
already, without striking a blow."

She turned her head proudly and looked straight at Sir George.

"Is it not the truth?" she asked.

"Only in part," he said, gently. Then, with infinite pains and delicacy,
he told her of our government's desire that the Iroquois should not
engage in the struggle; that if they had consented to neutrality they
might have remained in possession of their lands and all their ancient
rights, guaranteed by our Congress.

He pointed out the fatal consequences of Guy Johnson's councils, the
effect of Butler's lying promises, the dreadful results of such a
struggle between Indians, maddened by the loss of their own homes, and
settlers desperately clinging to theirs.

"It is not the Mohawks I blame," he said, "it is those to whom
opportunity has given wider education and knowledge--the Tories, who are
attempting to use the Six Nations for their own selfish and terrible
ends!... If in your veins run a few drops of Mohawk blood, my child,
English blood runs there, too. Be true to your bright Mohawk blood; be
true to the generous English blood. It were cowardly to deny
either--shameful to betray the one for the other."

She gazed at him, fascinated; his voice swayed her, his handsome, grave
face held her. Whether it was reason or emotion, mind or heart, I know
not, but her whole sensitive being seemed to respond to his voice; and
as he played upon this lovely human instrument, varying his deep theme,
she responded in every nerve, every breath. Reason, hope, sorrow,
tenderness, passion--all these I read in her deep, velvet eyes, and in
the mute language of her lips, and in the timing pulse-beat under the
lace on her breast.

I rose and walked to the door. She did not heed my going, nor did Sir
George.

Under the oak-tree I found Murphy and Mount, smoking their pipes and
watching Beacraft, who lay with his rough head pillowed on his arms,
feigning slumber.

"Why did you mark so many houses with the red hatchet?" I asked,
pleasantly.

He did not move a muscle, but over his face a deep color spread to the
neck and hair.

"Murphy," I said, "take that prisoner to General Schuyler!"

Beacraft sprang up, glaring at me out of bloodshot eyes.

"Shoot him if he breaks away," I added.

From his convulsed and distorted lips a torrent of profanity burst as
Murphy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and faced him eastward. I drew
the blue paper from my wallet, whispered to Murphy, and handed it to
him. He shoved it inside the breast of his hunting-shirt, cocked his
rifle, and tapped Beacraft on the arm.

So they marched away across the sunlit pasture, where blackbirds walked
among the cattle, and the dew sparkled in tinted drops of fire.

In all my horror of the man I pitied him, for I knew he was going to his
death, there through the fresh, sweet morning, under the blue heavens.
Once I saw him look up, as though to take a last long look at a free
sky, and my heart ached heavily. Yet he had plotted death in its most
dreadful shapes for others who loved life as well as he--death to
neighbors, death to strangers--whole families, whom he had perhaps never
even seen--to mothers, to fathers, old, young, babes in the cradle,
babes at the breast; and he had set down the total of one hundred and
twenty-nine scalps at twenty dollars each, over his own signature.

Schuyler had said to me that it was not the black-eyed Indians the
people of Tryon County dreaded, but the blue-eyed savages. And I had
scarcely understood at that time how the ferocity of demons could lie
dormant in white breasts.

Standing there with Mount under the oak, I saw Sir George and Magdalen
Brant leave the house and stroll down the path towards the stream. Sir
George was still speaking in his quiet, earnest manner; her eyes were
fixed on him so that she scarce heeded her steps, and twice long sprays
of sweetbrier caught her gown, and Sir George freed her. But her eyes
never wandered from him; and I myself thought he never looked so
handsome and courtly as he did now, in his officer's uniform and
black cockade.

Where their pathway entered the alders, below the lane, they vanished
from our sight; and, leaving Mount to watch I went back to the house, to
search it thoroughly from cellar to the dark garret beneath the eaves.

At two o'clock in the afternoon Sir George and Magdalen Brant had not
returned. I called Mount into the house, and we cooked some eggs and
johnny-cake to stay our stomachs. An hour later I sent Mount out to make
a circle of a mile, strike the Iroquois trail and hang to it till dark,
following any traveller, white or red, who might be likely to lead him
towards the secret trysting-place of the False-Faces.

Left alone at the house, I continued to rummage, finding nothing of
importance, however; and towards dusk I came out to see if I might
discover Sir George and Magdalen Brant. They were not in sight. I waited
for a while, strolling about the deserted garden, where a few poppies
turned their crimson disks towards the setting sun, and a peony lay dead
and smelling rank, with the ants crawling all over it. In the mellow
light the stillness was absolute, save when a distant white-throat's
silvery call, long drawn out, floated from the forest's darkening edge.

The melancholy of the deserted home oppressed me, as though I had
wronged it; the sad little house seemed to be watching me out of its
humble windows, like a patient dog awaiting another blow. Beacraft's
worn coat and threadbare vest, limp and musty as the garments of a dead
man, hung on a peg behind the door. I searched the pockets with
repugnance and found a few papers, which smelled like the covers of
ancient books, memoranda of miserable little transactions--threepence
paid for soling shoes, twopence here, a penny there; nothing more. I
threw the papers on the grass, dipped up a bucket of well-water, and
rinsed my fingers. And always the tenantless house watched me furtively
from its humble windows.

The sun's brassy edge glittered above the blue chain of hills as I
walked across the pasture towards the path that led winding among the
alders to the brook below. I followed it in the deepening evening light
and sat down on a log, watching the water swirling through the flat
stepping-stones where trout were swarming, leaping for the tiny winged
creatures that drifted across the dusky water. And as I sat there I
became aware of sounds like voices; and at first, seeing no one, I
thought the noises came from the low bubbling monotone of the stream.
Then I heard a voice murmuring: "I will do what you ask me--I will do
everything you desire."

Fearful of eavesdropping, I rose, peering ahead to make myself known,
but saw nothing in the deepening dusk. On the point of calling, the
words died on my lips as the same voice sounded again, close to me:

"I pray you let me have my way. I will obey you. How can you doubt it?
But I must obey in my own way."

And Sir George's deep, pleasant voice answered: "There is danger to you
in this. I could not endure that, Magdalen."

They were on a path parallel to the trail in which I stood, separated
from me by a deep fringe of willow. I could not see them, though now
they were slowly passing abreast of me.

"What do you care for a maid you so easily persuade?" she asked, with a
little laugh that rang pitifully false in the dusk.

"It is her own merciful heart that persuades her," he said, under his
breath.

"I think my heart is merciful," she said--"more merciful than even I
knew. The restless blood in me set me afire when I saw the wrong done to
these patient people of the Long House.... And when they appealed to me
I came here to justify them, and bid them stand for their own
hearths.... And now you come, teaching me the truth concerning right and
wrong, and how God views justice and injustice; and how this tempest,
once loosened, can never be chained until innocent and guilty are alike
ingulfed.... I am very young to know all these things without
counsel.... I needed aid--and wisdom to teach me--your wisdom. Now, in
my turn, I shall teach; but you must let me teach in my way. There is
only one way that the Long House can be taught.... You do not believe
it, but in this I am wiser than you--I know."

"Will you not tell me what you mean to do, Magdalen?"

"No, Sir George."

"When will you tell me?"

"Never. But you will know what I have done. You will see that I hold
three nations back. What else can you ask? I shall obey you. What more
is there?"

Her voice lingered in the air like an echo of flowing water, then died
away as they moved on, until nothing sounded in the forest stillness
save the low ripple of the stream. An hour later I picked my way back to
the house and saw Sir George standing in the starlight, and Mount beside
him, pointing towards the east.

"I've found the False-Faces' trysting-place," said Mount, eagerly, as I
came up. "I circled and struck the main Iroquois trail half a mile
yonder in the bottom land--a smooth, hard trail, worn a foot deep, sir.
And first comes an Onondaga war-party, stripped and painted something
sickening, and I dogged 'em till they turned off into the bush to shoot
a doe full of arrows--though all had guns!--and left 'em eating. Then
comes three painted devils, all hung about with witch-drums and rattles,
and I tied to them. And, would you believe it, sir, they kept me on a
fox-trot straight east, then south along a deer-path, till they struck
the Kennyetto at that sulphur spring under the big cliff--you know, Sir
George, where Klock's old line cuts into the Mohawk country?"

"I know," said Sir George.

Mount took off his cap and scratched his ear.

"The forest is full of little heaps of flat stones. I could see my
painted friends with the drums and rattles stop as they ran by, and each
pull a flat stone from the river and add it to the nearest heap. Then
they disappeared in the ravine--and I guess that settles it,
Captain Ormond."

Sir George looked at me, nodding.

"That settles it, Ormond," he said.

I bade Mount cook us something to eat. Sir George looked after him as he
entered the house, then began a restless pacing to and fro, arms loosely
clasped behind him.

"About Magdalen Brant," he said, abruptly. "She will not speak to the
three nations for Butler's party. The child had no idea of this wretched
conspiracy to turn the savages loose in the valley. She thought our
people meant to drive the Iroquois from their own lands--a black
disgrace to us if we ever do!... They implored her to speak to them in
council. Did you know they believe her to be inspired? Well, they do.
When she was a child they got that notion, and Guy Johnson and Walter
Butler have been lying to her and telling her what to say to the Oneidas
and Onondagas."

He turned impatiently, pacing the yard, scowling, and gnawing his lip.

"Where is she?" I asked.

"She has gone to bed. She would eat nothing. We must take her back with
us to Albany and summon the sachems of the three nations, with belts."

"Yes," I said, slowly. "But before we leave I must see the False-Faces."

"Did Schuyler make that a point?"

"Yes, Sir George."

"They say the False-Faces' rites are terrific," he muttered. "Thank
God, that child will not be lured into those hideous orgies by
Walter Butler!"

We walked towards the house where Mount had prepared our food. I sat
down on the door-step to eat my porridge and think of what lay before me
and how best to accomplish it. And at first I was minded to send Sir
George back with Magdalen Brant and take only Mount with me. But whether
it was a craven dread of despatching to Dorothy the man she was pledged
to wed, or whether a desire for his knowledge and experience prompted me
to invite his attendance at the False-Faces' rites, I do not know
clearly, even now. He came out of the house presently, and I asked him
if he would go with me.

"One of us should stay here with Magdalen Brant," he said, gravely.

"Is she not safe here?" I asked.

"You cannot leave a child like that absolutely alone," he answered.

"Then take her to Varicks'," I said, sullenly. "If she remains here some
of Butler's men will be after her to attend the council."

"You wish me to go up-stairs and rouse her for a journey--now?"

"Yes; it is best to get her into a safe place," I muttered. "She may
change her ideas, too, betwixt now and dawn."

He re-entered the house. I heard his spurs jingling on the stairway,
then his voice, and a rapping at the door above.

Jack Mount appeared, rifle in hand, wiping his mouth with his fingers;
and together we paced the yard, waiting for Sir George and Magdalen
Brant to set out before we struck the Iroquois trail.

Suddenly Sir George's heavy tread sounded on the stairs; he came to the
door, looking about him, east and west. His features were pallid and
set and seamed with stern lines; he laid an unsteady hand on my arm and
drew me a pace aside.

"Magdalen Brant is gone," he said.

"Gone!" I repeated. "Where?"

"I don't know!" he said, hoarsely.

I stared at him in astonishment. Gone? Where? Into the tremendous
blackness of this wilderness that menaced us on all sides like a sea?
And they had thought to tame her like a land-blown gull among
the poultry!

"Those drops of Mohawk blood are not in her veins for nothing," I said,
bitterly. "Here is our first lesson."

He hung his head. She had lied to him with innocent, smooth face, as all
such fifth-castes lie. No jewelled snake could shed her skin as deftly
as this young maid had slipped from her shoulders the frail garment of
civilization.

The man beside me stood as though stunned. I was obliged to speak to him
thrice ere he roused to follow Jack Mount, who, at a sign from me, had
started across the dark hill-side to guide us to the trysting-place of
the False-Faces' clan.

"Mount," I whispered, as he lingered waiting for us at the
stepping-stones in the dark, "some one has passed this trail since I
stood here an hour ago." And, bending down, I pointed to a high, flat
stepping-stone, which glimmered wet in the pale light of the stars.

Sir George drew his tinder-box, struck steel to flint, and lighted a
short wax dip.

"Here!" whispered Mount.

On the edge of the sand the dip-light illuminated the small imprint of a
woman's shoe, pointing southeast.

Magdalen Brant had heard the voices in the Long House.

"The mischief is done," said Sir George, steadily. "I take the blame
and disgrace of this."

"No; I take it," said I, sternly. "Step back, Sir George. Blow out that
dip! Mount, can you find your way to that sulphur spring where the flat
stones are piled in little heaps?"

The big fellow laughed. As he strode forward into the depthless sea of
darkness a whippoorwill called.

"That's Elerson, sir," he said, and repeated the call twice.

The rifleman appeared from the darkness, touching his cap to me. "The
horses are safe, sir," he said. "The General desires you to send your
report through Sir George Covert and push forward with Mount
to Stanwix."

He drew a sealed paper from his pouch and handed it to me, saying that I
was to read it.

Sir George lighted his dip once more. I broke the seal and read my
orders under the feeble, flickering light:

     "TEMPORARY HEADQUARTERS,
     VARICK MANOR, June 1, 1777.

     To Captain Ormond, on scout:

     Sir,--The General commanding this department desires you to
     employ all art and persuasion to induce the Oneidas,
     Tuscaroras, and Onondagas to remain quiet. Failing this, you
     are again reminded that the capture of Magdalen Brant is of
     the utmost importance. If possible, make Walter Butler also
     prisoner, and send him to Albany under charge of Timothy
     Murphy; but, above all, secure the person of Magdalen Brant
     and send her to Varick Manor under escort of Sir George
     Covert. If, for any reason, you find these orders impossible
     of execution, send your report of the False-Faces' council
     through Sir George Covert, and push forward with the riflemen
     Mount, Murphy, and Elerson until you are in touch with
     Gansevoort's outposts at Stanwix. Warn Colonel Gansevoort
     that Colonel Barry St. Leger has moved from Oswego, and order
     out a strong scout towards Fort Niagara. Although Congress
     authorizes the employment of friendly Oneidas as scouts,
     General Schuyler trusts that you will not avail yourself of
     this liberty. Noblesse oblige! The General directs you to
     return only when you have carried out these orders to the
     best of your ability. You will burn this paper before you set
     out for Stanwix. I am, sir,

     "Your most humble and obedient servant,

     "JOHN HARROW, Major and A. D. C. to the Major-General
     Commanding. (Signed) PHILIP SCHUYLER, Major-General
     Commanding the Department of the North."

Hot with mortification at the wretched muddle I had already made of my
mission, I thrust the paper into my pouch and turned to Elerson.

"You know Magdalen Brant?" I asked, impatiently.

"Yes, sir."

"There is a chance," I said, "that she may return to that house on the
hill behind us. If she comes back you will see that she does not leave
the house until we return."

Sir George extinguished the dip once more. Mount turned and set off at a
swinging pace along the invisible path; after him strode Sir George; I
followed, brooding bitterly on my stupidity, and hopeless now of
securing the prisoner in whose fragile hands the fate of the
Northland lay.



XV

THE FALSE-FACES

For a long time we had scented green birch smoke, and now, on hands and
knees, we were crawling along the edge of a cliff, the roar of the river
in our ears, when Mount suddenly flattened out and I heard him breathing
heavily as I lay down close beside him.

"Look!" he whispered, "the ravine is full of fire!"

A dull-red glare grew from the depths of the ravine; crimson shadows
shook across the wall of earth and rock. Above the roaring of the stream
I heard an immense confused murmur and the smothered thumping rhythm of
distant drumming.

"Go on," I whispered.

Mount crawled forward, Sir George and I after him. The light below
burned redder and redder on the cliff; sounds of voices grew more
distinct; the dark stream sprang into view, crimson under the increasing
furnace glow. Then, as we rounded a heavy jutting crag, a great light
flared up almost in our faces, not out of the kindling ravine, but
breaking forth among the huge pines on the cliffs.

"Their council-fire!" panted Mount. "See them sitting there!"

"Flatten out," I whispered. "Follow me!" And I crawled straight towards
the fire, where, ink-black against the ruddy conflagration, an enormous
pine lay uprooted, smashed by lightning or tempest, I know not which.

Into the dense shadows of the debris I crawled, Mount and Sir George
following, and lay there in the dark, staring at the forbidden circle
where the secret mysteries of the False-Faces had already begun.

Three great fires roared, set at regular intervals in a cleared space,
walled in by the huge black pines. At the foot of a tree sat a white
man, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. The man was
Walter Butler.

On his right sat Brant, wrapped in a crimson blanket, his face painted
black and scarlet. On his left knelt a ghastly figure wearing a scowling
wooden mask painted yellow and black.

Six separate groups of Indians surrounded the fires. They were sachems
of the Six Nations, each sachem bearing in his hands the symbol of his
nation and of his clan. All were wrapped in black-and-white blankets,
and their faces were painted white above the upper lip as though they
wore skin-tight masks.

Three young girls, naked save for the beaded clout, and painted scarlet
from brow to ankle, beat the witch-drums tump-a-tump! tump-a-tump! while
a fourth stood, erect as a vermilion statue, holding a chain belt woven
in black-and-white wampum.

Behind these central figures the firelight fell on a solid semicircle of
savages, crowns shaved, feathers aslant on the braided lock, and all
oiled and painted for war.

A chief, wrapped in a blue blanket, stepped out into the circle swinging
the carcass of a white dog by the hind-legs. He tied it to a black-birch
sapling and left it dangling and turning round and round.

"This for the Keepers of the Fires," he said, in Tuscarora, and flung
the dog's entrails into the middle fire.

Three young men sprang into the ring; each threw a log onto one of the
fires.

"The name of the Holder of the Heavens may now be spoken and heard
without offence," said an old sachem, rising. "Hark! brothers. Harken, O
you wise men and sachems! The False-Faces are laughing in the ravine
where the water is being painted with firelight. I acquaint you that the
False-Faces are coming up out of the ravine!"

The witch-drums boomed and rattled in the silence that followed his
words. Far off I heard the sound of many voices laughing and talking all
together; nearer, nearer, until, torch in hand, a hideously masked
figure bounded into the circle, shaking out his bristling cloak of green
reeds. Another followed, another, then three, then six, then a dozen,
whirling their blazing torches; all horribly masked and smothered in
coarse bunches of long, black hair, or cloaked with rustling
river reeds.

     "Ha! Ah-weh-hot-kwah!
     Ha! Ah-weh-hah!
     Ha! The crimson flower!
     Ha! The flower!"

they chanted, thronging around the central fire; then falling back in a
half-circle, torches lifted, while the masked figures banked solidly
behind, chanted monotonously:

     "Red fire burns on the maple!
     Red fire burns in the pines.
     The red flower to the maple!
     The red death to the pines!"

At this two young girls, wearing white feathers and white weasel pelts
dangling from shoulders to knees, entered the ring from opposite ends.
Their arms were full of those spectral blossoms called "Ghost-corn," and
they strewed the flowers around the ring in silence. Then three maidens,
glistening in cloaks of green pine-needles, slipped into the fire
circle, throwing showers of violets and yellow moccasin flowers over the
earth, calling out, amid laughter, "Moccasins for whippoorwills! Violets
for the two heads entangled!" And, their arms empty of blossoms, they
danced away, laughing while the False-Faces clattered their wooden masks
and swung their torches till the flames whistled.

Then six sachems rose, casting off their black-and-white blankets, and
each in turn planted branches of yellow willow, green willow, red osier,
samphire, witch-hazel, spice-bush, and silver birch along the edge of
the silent throng of savages.

"Until the night-sun comes be these your barriers, O Iroquois!" they
chanted. And all answered:

"The Cherry-maid shall lock the gates to the People of the Morning! A-e!
ja-e! Wild cherry and cherry that is red!"

Then came the Cherry-maid, a slender creature, hung from head to foot
with thick bunches of wild cherries which danced and swung when she
walked; and the False-Faces plucked the fruit from her as she passed
around, laughing and tossing her black hair, until she had been
despoiled and only the garment of sewed leaves hung from shoulder
to ankle.

A green blanket was spread for her and she sat down under the branch of
witch-hazel.

"The barrier is closed!" she said. "Kindle your coals from Onondaga, O
you Keepers of the Central Fire!"

An aged sachem arose, and, lifting his withered arm, swept it eastward.

"The hearth is cleansed," he said, feebly. "Brothers, attend!
She-who-runs is coming. Listen!"

A dead silence fell over the throng, broken only by the rustle of the
flames. After a moment, very far away in the forest, something sounded
like the muffled gallop of an animal, paddy-pad! paddy-pad, coming
nearer and ever nearer.

"It's the Toad-woman!" gasped Mount in my ear. "It's the Huron witch!
Ah! My God! look there!"

Hopping, squattering, half scrambling, half bounding into the firelight
came running a dumpy creature all fluttering with scarlet rags. A coarse
mat of gray hair masked her visage; she pushed it aside and raised a
dreadful face in the red fire-glow--a face so marred, so horrible, that
I felt Mount shivering in the darkness beside me.

Through the hollow boom-boom of the witch-drums I heard a murmur
swelling from the motionless crowd, like a rising wind in the pines. The
hag heard it too; her mouth widened, splitting her ghastly visage. A
single yellow fang caught the firelight.

"O you People of the Mountain! O you Onondagas!" she cried. "I am come
to ask my Cayugas and my Senecas why they assemble here on the Kennyetto
when their council-fire and yours should burn at Onondaga! O you
Oneidas, People of the Standing Stone! I am come to ask my Senecas, my
Mountain-snakes, why the Keepers of the Iroquois Fire have let it go
out? O you of the three clans, let your ensigns rise and listen. I speak
to the Wolf, the Turtle, and the Bear! And I call on the seven kindred
clans of the Wolf, and the two kindred clans of the Turtle, and the four
kindred clans of the Bear throughout the Six Nations of the Iroquois
confederacy, throughout the clans of the Lenni-Lenape, throughout the
Huron-Algonquins and their clans!

"And I call on the False-Faces of the Spirit-water and the Water of
Light!"

She shook her scarlet rags and, raising her arm, hurled a hatchet into
a painted post which stood behind the central fire.

"O you Cayugas, People of the Carrying-place! Strike that war-post with
your hatchets or face the ghosts of your fathers in every trail!"

There was a deathly silence. Catrine Montour closed her horrible little
eyes, threw back her head, and, marking time with her flat foot,
began to chant.

She chanted the glory of the Long House; of the nations that drove the
Eries, the Hurons, the Algonquins; of the nation that purged the earth
of the Stonish Giants; of the nation that fought the dreadful battle of
the Flying Heads. She sang the triumph of the confederacy, the bonds
that linked the Elder Brothers and Elder Sons with the Esaurora, whose
tongue was the sign of council unity.

And the circle of savages began to sway in rhythm to her chanting,
answering back, calling their challenge from clan to clan; until,
suddenly, the Senecas sprang to their feet and drove their hatchets into
the war-post, challenging the Lenape with their own battle-cry:

"Yoagh! Yoagh! Ha-ha! Hagh! Yoagh!"

Then the Mohawks raised their war-yelp and struck the post; and the
Cayugas answered with a terrible cry, striking the post, and calling out
for the Next Youngest Son--meaning the Tuscaroras--to draw
their hatchets.

"Have the Seminoles made women of you?" screamed Catrine Montour,
menacing the sachems of the Tuscaroras with clinched fists.

"Let the Lenape tell you of women!" retorted a Tuscarora sachem, calmly.

At this opening of an old wound the Oneidas called on the Lenape to
answer; but the Lenape sat sullen and silent, with flashing eyes fixed
on the Mohawks.

Then Catrine Montour, lashing herself into a fury, screamed for
vengeance on the people who had broken the chain-belt with the Long
House. Raving and frothing, she burst into a torrent of prophecy, which
silenced every tongue and held every Indian fascinated.

"Look!" whispered Mount. "The Oneidas are drawing their hatchets! The
Tuscaroras will follow! The Iroquois will declare for war!"

Suddenly the False-Faces raised a ringing shout:

"Kree! Ha-ha! Kre-e!"

And a hideous creature in yellow advanced, rattling his yellow mask.

Catrine Montour, slavering and gasping, leaned against the painted
war-post. Into the fire-ring came dancing a dozen girls, all strung with
brilliant wampum, their bodies and limbs painted vermilion, sleeveless
robes of wild iris hanging to their knees. With a shout they chanted:

"O False-Faces, prepare to do honor to the truth! She who Dreams has
come from her three sisters--the Woman of the Thunder-cloud, the Woman
of the Sounding Footsteps, the Woman of the Murmuring Skies!"

And, joining hands, they cried, sweetly: "Come, O Little Rosebud
Woman!--Ke-neance-e-qua! O-gin-e-o-qua!--Woman of the Rose!"

And all together the False-Faces cried: "Welcome to Ta-lu-la, the
leaping waters! Here is I-e-nia, the wanderer's rest! Welcome, O Woman
of the Rose!"

Then the grotesque throng of the False-Faces parted right and left; a
lynx, its green eyes glowing, paced out into the firelight; and behind
the tawny tree-cat came slowly a single figure--a young girl, bare of
breast and arm; belted at the hips with silver, from which hung a
straight breadth of doeskin to the instep of her bare feet. Her dark
hair, parted, fell in two heavy braids to her knees; her lips were
tinted with scarlet; her small ear-lobes and finger-tips were stained a
faint rose-color.

In the breathless silence she raised her head. Sir George's crushing
grip clutched my arm, and he fell a-shuddering like a man with ague.

The figure before us was Magdalen Brant.

The lynx lay down at her feet and looked her steadily in the face.

Slowly she raised her rounded arm, opened her empty palm; then from
space she seemed to pluck a rose, and I saw it there between her
forefinger and her thumb.

A startled murmur broke from the throng. "Magic! She plucks blossoms
from the empty air!"

"O you Oneidas," came the sweet, serene voice, "at the tryst of the
False-Faces I have kept my tryst.

"You wise men of the Six Nations, listen now attentively; and you,
ensigns and attestants, attend, honoring the truth which from my twin
lips shall flow, sweetly as new honey and as sap from April maples."

She stooped and picked from the ground a withered leaf, holding it out
in her small, pink palm.

"Like this withered leaf is your understanding. It is for a maid to
quicken you to life, ... as I restore this last year's leaf to life,"
she said, deliberately.

In her open palm the dry, gray leaf quivered, moved, straightened,
slowly turned moist and fresh and green. Through the intense silence the
heavy, gasping breath of hundreds of savages told of the tension they
struggled under.

She dropped the leaf to her feet; gradually it lost its green and curled
up again, a brittle, ashy flake.

"O you Oneidas!" she cried, in that clear voice which seemed to leave a
floating melody in the air, "I have talked with my Sisters of the
Murmuring Skies, and none but the lynx at my feet heard us."

She bent her lovely head and looked into the creature's blazing orbs;
after a moment the cat rose, took three stealthy steps, and lay down at
her feet, closing its emerald eyes.

The girl raised her head: "Ask me concerning the truth, you sachems of
the Oneida, and speak for the five war-chiefs who stand in their paint
behind you!"

An old sachem rose, peering out at her from dim, aged eyes.

"Is it war, O Woman of the Rose?" he quavered.

"Neah!" she said, sweetly.

An intense silence followed, shattered by a scream from the hag,
Catrine.

"A lie! It is war! You have struck the post, Cayugas! Senecas! Mohawks!
It is a lie! Let this young sorceress speak to the Oneidas; they are
hers; the Tuscaroras are hers, and the Onondagas and the Lenape! Let
them heed her and her dreams and her witchcraft! It concerns not you, O
Mountain-snakes! It concerns only these and False-Faces! She is their
prophetess; let her dream for them. I have dreamed for you, O Elder
Brothers! And I have dreamed of war!!"

"And I of peace!" came the clear, floating voice, soothing the harsh
echoes of the hag's shrieking appeal. "Take heed, you Mohawks, and you
Cayuga war-chiefs and sachems, that you do no violence to this
council-fire!"

"The Oneidas are women!" yelled the hag.

Magdalen Brant made a curiously graceful gesture, as though throwing
something to the ground from her empty hand. And, as all looked,
something did strike the ground--something that coiled and hissed and
rattled--a snake, crouched in the form of a letter S; and the lynx
turned its head, snarling, every hair erect.

"Mohawks and Cayugas!" she cried; "are you to judge the Oneidas?--you
who dare not take this rattlesnake in your hands?"

There was no reply. She smiled and lifted the snake. It coiled up in her
palm, rattling and lifting its terrible head to the level of her eyes.
The lynx growled.

"Quiet!" she said, soothingly. "The snake has gone, O Tahagoos, my
friend. Behold, my hand is empty; Sa-kwe-en-ta, the Fanged One
has gone."

It was true. There was nothing where, an instant before, I myself had
seen the dread thing, crest swaying on a level with her eyes.

"Will you be swept away by this young witch's magic?" shrieked Catrine
Montour.

"Oneidas!" cried Magdalen Brant, "the way is cleared! Hiro [I have
spoken]!"

Then the sachems of the Oneida stood up, wrapping themselves in their
blankets, and moved silently away, filing into the forest, followed by
the war-chiefs and those who had accompanied the Oneida delegation as
attestants.

"Tuscaroras!" said Magdalen Brant, quietly.

The Tuscarora sachems rose and passed out into the darkness, followed by
their suite of war-chiefs and attestants.

"Onondagas!"

All but two of the Onondaga delegation left the council-fire. Amid a
profound silence the Lenape followed, and in their wake stalked three
tall Mohicans.

Walter Butler sprang up from the base of the tree where he had been
sitting and pointed a shaking finger at Magdalen Brant:

"Damn you!" he shouted; "if you call on my Mohawks, I'll cut your
throat, you witch!"

Brant bounded to his feet and caught Butler's rigid, outstretched arm.

"Are you mad, to violate a council-fire?" he said, furiously. Magdalen
Brant looked calmly at Butler, then deliberately faced the sachems.

"Mohawks!" she called, steadily.

There was a silence; Butler's black eyes were almost starting from his
bloodless visage; the hag, Montour, clawed the air in helpless fury.

"Mohawks!" repeated the girl, quietly.

Slowly a single war-chief rose, and, casting aside his blanket, drew his
hatchet and struck the war-post. The girl eyed him contemptuously, then
turned again and called:

"Senecas!"

A Seneca chief, painted like death, strode to the post and struck it
with his hatchet.

"Cayuga!" called the girl, steadily.

A Cayuga chief sprang at the post and struck it twice.

Roars of applause shook the silence; then a masked figure leaped towards
the central fire, shouting: "The False-Faces' feast! Ho! Hoh! Ho-ooh!"

In a moment the circle was a scene of terrific excesses. Masked figures
pelted each other with live coals from the fires; dancing, shrieking,
yelping demons leaped about whirling their blazing torches; witch-drums
boomed; chant after chant was raised as new dancers plunged into the
delirious throng, whirling the carcasses of white dogs, painted with
blue and yellow stripes. The nauseating stench of burned roast meat
filled the air, as the False-Faces brought quarters of venison and
baskets of fish into the circle and dumped them on the coals.

Faster and more furious grew the dance of the False-Faces. The flying
coals flew in every direction, streaming like shooting-stars across the
fringing darkness. A grotesque masker, wearing the head-dress of a bull,
hurled his torch into the air; the flaming brand lodged in the feathery
top of a pine, the foliage caught fire, and with a crackling rush a vast
whirlwind of flame and smoke streamed skyward from the forest giant.

"To-wen-yon-go [It touches the sky]!" howled the crazed dancers, leaping
about, while faster and faster came the volleys of live coals, until a
young girl's hair caught fire.

"Kah-none-ye-tah-we!" they cried, falling back and forming a
chain-around her as she wrung the sparks from her long hair, laughing
and leaping about between the flying coals.

Then the nine sachems of the Mohawks rose, all covering their breasts
with their blankets, save the chief sachem, who is called "The Two
Voices." The serried circle fell back, Senecas, Cayugas, and Mohawks
shouting their battle-cries; scores of hatchets glittered,
knives flashed.

All alone in the circle stood Magdalen Brant, slim, straight, motionless
as a tinted statue, her hands on her hips. Reflections of the fires
played over her, in amber and pearl and rose; violet lights lay under
her eyes and where the hair shadowed her brow. Then, through the
silence, a loud voice cried: "Little Rosebud Woman, the False-Faces
thank you! Koon-wah-yah-tun-was [They are burning the white dog]!"

She raised her head and laid a hand on each cheek.

"Neah-wen-ha [I thank you]," she said, softly.

At the word the lynx rose and looked up into her face, then turned and
paced slowly across the circle, green eyes glowing.

The young girl loosened the braids of her hair; a thick, dark cloud fell
over her bare shoulders and breasts.

"She veils her face!" chanted the False-Faces. "Respect the veil! Adieu,
O Woman of the Rose!"

Her hands fell, and, with bent head, moving slowly, pensively, she
passed out of the infernal circle, the splendid lynx stalking at
her heels.

No sooner was she gone than hell itself broke loose among the
False-Faces; the dance grew madder and madder, the terrible rite of
sacrifice was enacted with frightful symbols. Through the awful din the
three war-cries pealed, the drums advanced, thundering; the iris-maids
lighted the six little fires of black-birch, spice-wood, and sassafras,
and crouched to inhale the aromatic smoke until, stupefied and quivering
in every limb with the inspiration of delirium, they stood erect,
writhing, twisting, tossing their hair, chanting the splendors of
the future!

Then into the crazed orgie leaped the Toad-woman like a gigantic scarlet
spider, screaming prophecy and performing the inconceivable and nameless
rites of Ak-e, Ne-ke, and Ge-zis, until, in her frenzy, she went stark
mad, and the devil worship began with the awful sacrifice of Leshee in
Biskoonah.

Horror-stricken, nauseated, I caught Mount's arm, whispering: "Enough,
in God's name! Come away!"

My ears rang with the distracted yelping of the Toad-woman, who was
strangling a dog. Faint, almost reeling, I saw an iris-girl fall in
convulsions; the stupefying smoke blew into my face, choking me. I
staggered back into the darkness, feeling my way among the unseen trees,
gasping for fresh air. Behind me, Mount and Sir George came creeping,
groping like blind men along the cliffs.

"This way," whispered Mount.



XVI

ON SCOUT

Like a pursued man hunted through a dream, I labored on, leaden-limbed,
trembling; and it seemed hours and hours ere the blue starlight broke
overhead and Beacraft's dark house loomed stark and empty on the
stony hill.

Suddenly the ghostly call of a whippoorwill broke out from the willows.
Mount answered; Elerson appeared in the path, making a sign for silence.

"Magdalen Brant entered the house an hour since," he whispered. "She
sits yonder on the door-step. I think she has fallen asleep."

We stole forward through the dusk towards the silent figure on the
door-step. She sat there, her head fallen back against the closed door,
her small hands lying half open in her lap. Under her closed eyes the
dark circles of fatigue lay; a faint trace of rose paint still clung to
her lips; and from the ragged skirt of her thorn-rent gown one small
foot was thrust, showing a silken shoe and ankle stained with mud.

There she lay, sleeping, this maid who, with her frail strength, had
split forever the most powerful and ancient confederacy the world had
ever known.

Her superb sacrifice of self, her proud indifference to delicacy and
shame, her splendid acceptance of the degradation, her instant and
fearless execution of the only plan which could save the land from war
with a united confederacy, had left us stunned with admiration and
helpless gratitude.

Had she gone to them as a white woman, using the arts of civilized
persuasion, she could have roused them to war, but she could not have
soothed them to peace. She knew it--even I knew that among the Iroquois
the Ruler of the Heavens can never speak to an Indian through the mouth
of a white woman.

As an Oneida, and a seeress of the False-Faces, she had answered their
appeal. Using every symbol, every ceremony, every art taught her as a
child, she had swayed them, vanquishing with mystery, conquering,
triumphing, as an Oneida, where a single false step, a single slip, a
moment's faltering in her sweet and serene authority might have brought
out the appalling cry of accusation:

"Her heart is white!"

And not one hand would have been raised to prevent the sacrificial test
which must follow and end inevitably in a dreadful death.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mount and Elerson, moved by a rare delicacy, turned and walked
noiselessly away towards the hill-top.

"Wake her," I said to Sir George.

He knelt beside her, looking long into her face; then touched her
lightly on the hand. She opened her eyes, looked up at him gravely, then
rose to her feet, steadying herself on his bent arm.

"Where have you been?" she asked, glancing anxiously from him to me.
There was the faintest ring of alarm in her voice, a tint of color on
cheek and temple. And Sir George, lying like a gentleman, answered: "We
have searched the trails in vain for you. Where have you lain
hidden, child?"

Her lips parted in an imperceptible sigh of relief; the pallor of
weariness returned.

"I have been upon your business, Sir George," she said, looking down at
her mud-stained garments. Her arms fell to her side; she made a little
gesture with one limp hand. "You see," she said, "I promised you." Then
she turned, mounting the steps, pensively; and, in the doorway, paused
an instant, looking back at him over her shoulder.

       *       *       *       *       *

And all that night, lying close to the verge of slumber, I heard Sir
George pacing the stony yard under the great stars; while the riflemen,
stretched beside the hearth, snored heavily, and the death-watch ticked
in the wall.

At dawn we three were afield, nosing the Sacandaga trail to count the
tracks leading to the north--the dread footprints of light, swift feet
which must return one day bringing to the Mohawk Valley an awful
reckoning.

At noon we returned. I wrote out my report and gave it to Sir George. We
spoke little together. I did not see Magdalen Brant again until they
bade me adieu.

And now it was two o'clock in the afternoon; Sir George had already set
out with Magdalen Brant to Varicks' by way of Stoner's; Elerson and
Mount stood by the door, waiting to pilot me towards Gansevoort's
distant outposts; the noon sunshine filled the deserted house and fell
across the table where I sat, reading over my instructions from Schuyler
ere I committed the paper to the flames.

So far, no thanks to myself, I had carried out my orders in all save the
apprehension of Walter Butler. And now I was uncertain whether to remain
and hang around the council-fire waiting for an opportunity to seize
Butler, or whether to push on at once, warn Gansevoort at Stanwix that
St. Leger's motley army had set out from Oswego, and then return to
trap Butler at my leisure.

I crumpled the despatch into a ball and tossed it onto the live coals in
the fireplace; the paper smoked, caught fire, and in a moment more the
black flakes sank into the ashes.

"Shall we burn the house, sir?" asked Mount, as I came to the doorway
and looked out.

I shook my head, picked up rifle, pouch, and sack, and descended the
steps. At the same instant a man appeared at the foot of the hill, and
Elerson waved his hand, saying: "Here's that mad Irishman, Tim Murphy,
back already."

Murphy came jauntily up the hill, saluted me with easy respect, and drew
from his pouch a small packet of papers which he handed me, nodding
carelessly at Elerson and staring hard at Mount as though he did not
recognize him.

"Phwat's this?" he inquired of Elerson--"a Frinch cooroor, or maybe a
Sac shquaw in a buck's shirrt?"

"Don't introduce him to me," said Mount to Elerson; "he'll try to kiss
my hand, and I hate ceremony."

"Quit foolin'," said Elerson, as the two big, over-grown boys seized
each other and began a rough-and-tumble frolic. "You're just cuttin'
capers, Tim, becuz you've heard that we're takin' the war-path--quit
pullin' me, you big Irish elephant! Is it true we're takin' the
war-path?"

"How do I know?" cried Murphy; but the twinkle in his blue eyes betrayed
him; "bedad, 'tis home to the purty lasses we go this blessed day, f'r
the crool war is over, an' the King's got the pip, an--"

"Murphy!" I said.

"Sorr," he replied, letting go of Mount and standing at a respectful
slouch.

"Did you get Beacraft there in safety?"

"I did, sorr."

"Any trouble?"

"None, sorr--f'r me."

I opened the first despatch, looking at him keenly.

"Do we take the war-path?" I asked.

"We do, sorr," he said, blandly. "McDonald's in the hills wid the McCraw
an'ten score renegades. Wan o' their scouts struck old man Schell's farm
an' he put buckshot into sivinteen o' them, or I'm a liar where
I shtand!"

"I knew it," muttered Elerson to Mount. "Where you see smoke, there's
fire; where you see Murphy, there's trouble. Look at the grin on
him--and his hatchet shined up like a Cayuga's war-axe!"

I opened the despatch; it was from Schuyler, countermanding his
instructions for me to go to Stanwix, and directing me to warn every
settlement in the Kingsland district that McDonald and some three
hundred Indians and renegades were loose on the Schoharie, and that
their outlying scouts had struck Broadalbin.

I broke the wax of the second despatch; it was from Harrow, briefly
thanking me for the capture of Beacraft, adding that the man had been
sent to Albany to await court-martial.

That meant that Beacraft must hang; a most disagreeable feeling came
over me, and I tore open the third and last paper, a bulky document,
and read it:

     "VARICK MANOR,
     "June the 2d.
     "An hour to dawn.

     "In my bedroom I am writing to you the adieu I should have
     said the night you left. Murphy, a rifleman, goes to you with
     despatches in an hour: he will take this to you, ...
     wherever you are.

     "I saw the man you sent in. Father says he must surely hang.
     He was so pale and silent, he looked so dreadfully tired--and
     I have been crying a little--I don't know why, because all
     say he is a great villain.

     "I wonder whether you are well and whether you remember me."
     ("me" was crossed out and "us" written very carefully.) "The
     house is so strange without you. I go into your room
     sometimes. Cato has pressed all your fine clothes. I go into
     your room to read. The light is very good there. I am reading
     the Poems of Pansard. You left a fern between the pages to
     mark the poem called 'Our Deaths'; did you know it? Do you
     admire that verse? It seems sad to me. And it is not true,
     either. Lovers seldom die together." (This was crossed out,
     and the letter went on.) "Two people who love--" ("love" was
     crossed out heavily and the line continued)--"two friends
     seldom die at the same instant. Otherwise there would be no
     terror in death.

     "I forgot to say that Isene, your mare, is very well. Papa
     and the children are well, and Ruyven a-pestering General
     Schuyler to make him a cornet in the legion of horse, and
     Cecile, all airs, goes about with six officers to carry her
     shawl and fan.

     "For me--I sit with Lady Schuyler when I have the
     opportunity. I love her; she is so quiet and gentle and lets
     me sit by her for hours, perfectly silent. Yesterday she came
     into your room, where I was sitting, and she looked at me for
     a long time--so strangely--and I asked her why, and she shook
     her head. And after she had gone I arranged your linen and
     sprinkled lavender among it.

     "You see there is so little to tell you, except that in the
     afternoon some Senecas and Tories shot at one of our distant
     tenants, a poor man, one Christian Schell; and he beat them
     off and killed eleven, which was very brave, and one of the
     soldiers made a rude song about it, and they have been
     singing it all night in their quarters. I heard them from
     your room--where I sometimes sleep--the air being good there;
     and this is what they sang:

     "'A story, a story
       Unto you I will tell,
     Concerning a brave hero,
       One Christian Schell.

     "'Who was attacked by the savages.
       And Tories, it is said;
     But for this attack
       Most freely they bled.

     "'He fled unto his house
       For to save his life.
     Where he had left his arms
       In care of his wife.

     "'They advanced upon him
       And began to fire,
     But Christian with his blunderbuss
       Soon made them retire.

     "'He wounded Donald McDonald
       And drew him in the door,
     Who gave an account
       Their strength was sixty-four.

     "'Six there was wounded
       And eleven there was killed
     Of this said party,
       Before they quit the field.'

     "And I think there are a hundred other verses, which I will
     spare you; not that I forget them, for the soldiers sang them
     over and over, and I had nothing better to do than to lie
     awake and listen.

     "So that is all. I hear my messenger moving about below; I am
     to drop this letter down to him, as all are asleep, and to
     open the big door might wake them.

     "Good-bye.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "It was not my rifleman, only the sentry. They keep double
     watch since the news came about Schell. "Good-bye. I am
     thinking of you.

     "DOROTHY.

     "Postscript.--Please make my compliments and adieux to Sir
     George Covert.

     "Postscript.--The rifleman is here; he is whistling like a
     whippoorwill. I must say good-bye. I am mad to go with him.
     Do not forget me!

     "My memories are so keen, so pitilessly real, I can scarce
     endure them, yet cling to them the more desperately.

     "I did not mean to write this--truly I did not! But here, in
     the dusk, I can see your face just as it looked when you said
     good-bye!--so close that I could take it in my arms despite
     my vows and yours!

     "Help me to reason; for even God cannot, or will not, help
     me; knowing, perhaps, the dreadful after-life He has doomed
     me to for all eternity. If it is true that marriages are made
     in heaven, where was mine made? Can you answer? I cannot.
     (The whimper of the whippoorwill again!) Dearest, good-bye.
     Where my body lies matters nothing so that you hold my soul a
     little while. Yet, even of that they must rob you one day.
     Oh, if even in dying there is no happiness, where, where does
     it abide? Three places only have I heard of: the world,
     heaven, and hell. God forgive me, but I think the last could
     cover all.

     "Say that you love me! Say it to the forest, to the wind.
     Perhaps my soul, which follows you, may hear if you only say
     it. (Once more the ghost-call of the whippoorwill!) Dear lad,
     good-bye!"



XVII

THE FLAG

Day after day our little scout of four traversed the roads and forests
of the Kingsland district, warning the people at the outlying
settlements and farms that the county militia-call was out, and that
safety lay only in conveying their families to the forts and responding
to the summons of authority without delay.

Many obeyed; some rash or stubborn settlers prepared to defend their
homes. A few made no response, doubtless sympathizing with their Tory
friends who had fled to join McDonald or Sir John Johnson in the North.

Rumors were flying thick, every settlement had its full covey; every
cross-road tavern buzzed with gossip. As we travelled from settlement to
settlement, we, too, heard something of what had happened in distant
districts: how the Schoharie militia had been called out; how one
Huetson had been captured as he was gathering a band of Tories to join
the Butlers; how a certain Captain Ball had raised a company of
sixty-three royalists at Beaverdam and was fled to join Sir John; how
Captain George Mann, of the militia, refused service, declaring himself
a royalist, and disbanding his company; how Adam Crysler had thrown his
important influence in favor of the King, and that the inhabitants of
Tryon County were gloomy and depressed, seeing so many respectable
gentlemen siding with the Tories.

We learned that the Schoharie and Schenectady militia had refused to
march unless some provision was made to protect their families in their
absence; that Congress had therefore established a corps of invalids,
consisting of eight companies, each to have one captain, two
lieutenants, two ensigns, five sergeants, six corporals, two drums, two
fifes, and one hundred men; one company to be stationed in Schoharie,
and to be called the "Associate Exempts"; that three forts for the
protection of the Schoharie Valley were nearly finished, called the
Upper, Lower, and Middle forts.

More sinister still were the rumors from the British armies: Burgoyne
was marching on Albany from the north with the finest train of artillery
ever seen in America; St. Leger was moving from the west; McDonald had
started already, flinging out his Indian scouts as far as Perth and
Broadalbin, and Sir Henry Clinton had gathered a great army at New York
and was preparing to sweep the Hudson Valley from Fishkill to Albany.
And the focus of these three armies and of Butler's, Johnson's, and
McDonald's renegades and Indians was this unhappy county of Tryon, torn
already with internal dissensions; unarmed, unprovisioned, unorganized,
almost ungarrisoned.

I remember, one rainy day towards sunset, coming into a small hamlet
where, in front of the church, some score of farmers and yokels were
gathered, marshalled into a single line. Some were armed with rifles,
some with blunderbusses, some with spears and hay-forks. None wore
uniform. As we halted to watch the pathetic array, their fifer and
drummer wheeled out and marched down the line, playing Yankee Doodle.
Then the minister laid down his blunderbuss and, facing the company,
raised his arms in prayer, invoking the "God of Armies" as though he
addressed his supplication before a vast armed host.

Murphy strove to laugh, but failed; Mount muttered vaguely under his
breath; Elerson gnawed his lips and bent his bared head while the old
man finished his prayer to "The God of Armies!" then picked up his
blunderbuss and limped to his place in the scanty file.

And again I remember one fresh, sweet morning late in June, standing
with my riflemen at a toll-gate to see some four hundred Tryon County
militia marching past on their way to Unadilla on the Susquehanna, where
Brant, with half a thousand savages, had consented to a last parley.
Stout, wholesome lads they were, these Tryon County men; wearing brown
and yellow uniforms cut smartly, and their officers in the Continental
buff and blue, riding like regulars; curved swords shining and their
epaulets striking fire in the sunshine.

"Palatines!" said Mount, standing to salute as an officer rode by.
"That's General Herkimer--old Honikol Herkimer--with his hard,
weather-tanned jaws and the devil lurking under his eyebrows; and that
young fellow in his smart uniform is Colonel Cox, old George Klock's
son-in-law; and yonder rides Colonel Harper! Oh, I know 'em, sir; I was
not in these parts for nothing in '74 and '75!"

The drums and fifes were playing "Unadilla" as the regiment marched
past; and my riflemen, lounging along the roadside, exchanged
pleasantries with the hardy Palatines, or greeted acquaintances in their
impudent, bantering manner:

"Hello! What's this Low Dutch regiment? Say, Han Yost, the pigs has eat
off your queue-band! Bedad, they marrch like Albany ducks in fly-time!
Musha, thin, luk at the fat dhrummer laad! Has he apples in thim two
cheeks, Jack? I dunnoa! Hey, there goes Wagner! Hello, Wagner! Wisha,
laad, ye're cross-eyed an' shquint-lipped a-playin' yere fife
hind-end furrst!"

And the replies from the dusty, brown ranks, steadily passing:

"Py Gott! dere's Jack Mount! Look alretty, Jacob! Hello, Elerson! Ish
dot true you patch your breeches mit second-hand scalps you puy in
Montreal? Vat you vas doing down here, Tim Murphy? Oh, joost look at dem
devils of Morgan! Sure, Emelius, dey joost come so soon as ve go. Ya!
Dey come to kiss our girls, py cricky! Uf I catch you round my girl
alretty, Dave Elerson--"

"Silence! Silence in the ranks!" sang out an officer, riding up. The
brown column passed on, the golden dust hanging along its flanks. Far
ahead we could still hear the drums and fifes playing "Unadilla."

"They ought to have a flag; a flag's a good thing to fight for," said
Mount, looking after them. "I fought for the damned British rag when I
was fifteen. Lord! it makes me boil to think that they've forgot what we
did for 'em!"

"We Virginians carried a flag at the siege o' Boston," observed Elerson.
"It was a rattlesnake on a white ground, with the motto, 'Don't tread
on me!'"

I told them of the new flag that our Congress had chosen, describing it
in detail. They listened attentively, but made no comment.

It was on these expeditions that I learned something of these rough
riflemen which I had not suspected--their passionate devotion to the
forest. What the sea is to mariners, the endless, uncharted wilderness
was to these forest runners; they loved and hated it, they suspected and
trusted it. A forest voyage finished, they steered for the nearest port
with all the eager impatience of sea-cloyed sailors. Yet, scarcely were
they anchored in some frontier haven than they fell to dreaming of the
wilderness, of the far silences in the trackless sea of trees, of the
winds ruffling the forest's crests till ten thousand trees toss their
leaves, silver side up, as white-caps flash, rolling in long patches on
a heaving waste of waters.

Yet, in all those weeks I never heard one word or hint of that devotion
expressed or implied, not one trace of appreciation, not one shadow of
sentiment. If I ventured to speak of the vast beauty of the woods, there
was no response from my shy companions; one appeared to vie with another
in concealing all feeling under a careless mask and a bantering manner.

Once only can I recall a voluntary expression of pleasure in beauty; it
came from Jack Mount, one blue night in July, when the heavens flashed
under summer stars till the vaulted skies seemed plated solidly with
crusted gems.

"Them stars look kind of nice," he said, then  with embarrassment
and spat a quid of spruce-gum into the camp-fire.

Yet humanity demands some outlet for accumulated sentiment, and these
men found it in the dirge-like songs and laments and rude ballads of the
wilderness, which I think bear a close resemblance to the sailor-men's
songs, in words as well as in the dolorous melodies, fit only for the
scraping whine of a two-string fiddle in a sugar-camp.

The magic of June faded from the forests, smothered under the
magnificent and deeper glory of July's golden green; the early summer
ripened into August, finding us still afoot in the Kingsland district
gathering in the loyal, warning the rash, comforting the down-cast,
threatening the suspected. Twice, by expresses bound for Saratoga, I
sent full reports to Schuyler, but received no further orders. I
wondered whether he was displeased at my failure to arrest Walter
Butler; and we redoubled our efforts to gain news of him. Three times we
heard of his presence in or near the Kingsland district: once at Tribes
Hill, once at Fort Plain, and once it was said he was living quietly in
a farm-house near Johnstown, which he had the effrontery to enter in
broad daylight. But we failed to come up with him, and to this day I do
not know whether any of this information we received was indeed correct.
It was the first day of August when we heard of Butler's presence near
Johnstown; we had been lying at a tavern called "The Brick House," a
two-story inn standing where the Albany and Schenectady roads fork near
Fox Creek, and there had been great fear of McDonald's renegades that
week, and I had advised the despatch of an express to Albany asking for
troops to protect the valley when I chanced to overhear a woman say that
firing had been heard in the direction of Stanwix.

The woman, a slattern, who was known by the unpleasant name of Rya's
Pup, declared that Walter Butler had gone to Johnstown to join St. Leger
before Stanwix, and that the Tories would give the rebels such a
drubbing that we would all be crawling on our bellies yelling for
quarter this day week. As the wench was drunk, I made little of her
babble; but the next day Murphy and Elerson, having been in touch with
Gansevoort's outposts, returned to me with a note from Colonel Willett:

     "FORT SCHUYLER (STANWIX),
     "August 2d,

     "DEAR SIR,--I transmit to you the contents of a letter from
     Colonel Gansevoort, dated July 28th:

     "'Yesterday, at three o'clock in the afternoon, our garrison
     was alarmed with the firing of four guns. A party of men was
     instantly despatched to the place where the guns were fired,
     which was in the edge of the woods, about five hundred yards
     from the fort; but they were too late. The villains were
     fled, after having shot three young girls who were out
     picking raspberries, two of whom were lying scalped and
     tomahawked; one dead and the other expiring, who died in
     about half an hour after she was brought home. The third had
     a bullet through her face, and crawled away, lying hid until
     we arrived. It was pitiful. The child may live, but has
     lost her mind.

     "'This was accomplished by a scout of sixteen Tories of
     Colonel John Butler's command and two savages, Mohawks, all
     under direction of Captain Walter Butler.'

     "This, sir, is a revised copy of Colonel Gansevoort's letter
     to Colonel Van Schaick. Permit me to add, with the full
     approval of Colonel Gansevoort, that the scout under your
     command warns the militia at Whitestown of the instant
     approach of Colonel Barry St. Leger's regular troops,
     reinforced by Sir John Johnson's regiment of Royal Greens,
     Colonel Butler's Rangers, McCraw's outlaws, and seven hundred
     Mohawk, Seneca, and Cayuga warriors under Brant and Walter
     Butler. I will add, sir, that we shall hold this fort to the
     end. Respectfully,

     "MARINUS WlLLETT,
     Lieutenant-Colonel."

Standing knee-deep in the thick undergrowth, I read this letter aloud to
my riflemen, amid a shocked silence; then folded it for transmission to
General Schuyler when opportunity might offer, and signed Murphy to
lead forward.

So Rya's Pup was right. Walter Butler had made his first mark on the red
Oswego trail!

We marched in absolute silence, Murphy leading, every nerve on edge,
straining eye and ear for a sign of the enemy's scouts, now doubtless
swarming forward and to cover the British advance.

But the wilderness is vast, and two armies might pass each other
scarcely out of hail and never know.

Towards sundown I caught my first glimpse of a hostile Iroquois
war-party. We had halted behind some rocks on a heavily timbered <DW72>,
and Mount was scrutinizing the trail below, where a little brook crossed
it, flowing between mossy stones; when, without warning, a naked Mohawk
stalked into the trail, sprang from rock to rock, traversing the bed of
the brook like a panther, then leaped lightly into the trail again and
moved on. After him, in file, followed some thirty warriors, naked save
for the clout, all oiled and painted, and armed with rifles. One or two
glanced up along our <DW72> while passing, but a gesture from the leader
hastened their steps, and more quickly than I can write it they had
disappeared among the darkening shadows of the towering timber.

"Bad luck!" breathed Murphy; "'tis a rocky road to Dublin, but a shorter
wan to hell! Did you want f'r to shoot, Jack? Look at Dave Elerson an'
th' thrigger finger av him twitchin' all a-thremble! Wisha, lad! lave
the red omadhouns go. Arre you tired o' the hair ye wear, Jack Mount?
Come on out o' this, ye crazy divil!"

Circling the crossing-place, we swung east, then south, coming presently
to a fringe of trees through which the red sunset glittered,
illuminating a great stretch of swamp, river, and cleared land beyond.
"Yonder's the foort," whispered Murphy--"ould Stanwix--or Schuyler, as
they call it now. Step this way, sorr; ye can see it plain across the
Mohawk shwamps."

The red sunshine struck the three-cornered bastions of the rectangular
fort; a distant bayonet caught the light and twinkled above the
stockaded ditch like a slender point of flame. Outside the works squads
of troops moved, relieving the nearer posts; working details, marching
to and from the sawmill, were evidently busy with the unfinished
abattis; a long, low earth-work, surmounted by a stockade and a
block-house, which. Murphy said, guarded the covered way to the creek,
swarmed with workmen plying pick and shovel and crowbar, while the
sentries walked their beats above, watching the new road which crossed
the creek and ran through the swamp to the sawmill.

"It is strange," said Mount, "that they have not yet finished the fort."

"It is stranger yet," said Elerson, "that they should work so close to
the forest yonder. Look at that fatigue-party drawing logs within
pistol-shot of the woods--"

Before the rifleman could finish, a sentinel on the northwest parapet
fired his musket; the entire scene changed in a twinkling; the
fatigue-party scattered, dropping chains and logs; the workmen sprang
out of ditch and pit, running for the stockade; a man, driving a team of
horses along the new road, jumped up in his wagon and lashed his horses
to a gallop across the rough meadow; and I saw the wagon swaying and
bumping up the <DW72>, followed by a squad of troops on the double.
Behind these ran a dozen men driving some frightened cattle; soldiers
swarmed out on the bastions, soldiers flung open the water gates,
soldiers hung over parapets, gesticulating and pointing westward.

Suddenly from the bastion on the west angle of the fort a shaft of flame
leaped; a majestic cloud buried the parapet, and the deep cannon-thunder
shook the evening air. Above the writhing smoke, now stained pink in the
sunset light, a flag crept jerkily up the halyards of a tall flag-staff,
higher, higher, until it caught the evening wind aloft and floated
lazily out.

"It's the new flag," whispered Elerson, in an awed voice.

We stared at it, fascinated. Never before had the world seen that flag
displayed. Blood-red and silver-white the stripes rippled; the stars on
the blue field glimmered peacefully. There it floated, serene above the
drifting cannon--smoke, the first American flag ever hoisted on earth.
A freshening wind caught it, blowing strong out of the flaming west; the
cannon-smoke eddied, settled, and curled, floating across its folds. Far
away we heard a faint sound from the bastions. They were cheering.

Cap in hand I stood, eyes never leaving the flag; Mount uncovered,
Elerson and Murphy drew their deer-skin caps from their heads
in silence.

After a little while we caught the glimmer of steel along the forest's
edge; a patch of scarlet glowed in the fading rays of sunset. Then, out
into the open walked a red-coated officer bearing a white flag and
attended by a drummer in green and scarlet.

Far across the clearing we heard drums beating the parley; and we knew
the British were at the gates of Stanwix, and that St. Leger had
summoned the garrison to surrender.

We waited; the white flag entered the stockade gate, only to reappear
again, quickly, as though the fort's answer to the summons had been
brief and final. Scarcely had the ensign reached the forest than bang!
bang! bang! bang! echoed the muskets, and the rifles spat flame into the
deepening dusk and the dark woods rang with the war-yell of half a
thousand Indians stripped for the last battles that the Long House
should ever fight.

About ten o'clock that night we met a regiment of militia on the
Johnstown road, marching noisily north towards Whitestown, and learned
that General Herkimer's brigade was concentrating at an Oneida hamlet
called Oriska, only eight miles by the river highway from Stanwix, and a
little to the east of Oriskany creek. An officer named Van Slyck also
informed me that an Oneida interpreter had just come in, reporting St.
Leger's arrival before Stanwix, and warning Herkimer that an ambuscade
had been prepared for him should he advance to raise the siege of the
beleaguered fort.

Learning that we also had seen the enemy at Stanwix, this officer begged
us to accompany him to Oriska, where our information might prove
valuable to General Herkimer. So I and my three riflemen fell in as the
troops tramped past; and I, for one, was astonished to hear their drums
beating so loudly in the enemy's country, and to observe the careless
indiscipline in the ranks, where men talked loudly and their reckless
laughter often sounded above the steady rolling of the drums.

"Are there no officers here to cuff their ears!" muttered Mount, in
disgust.

"Bah!" sneered Elerson; "officers can't teach militia--only a thrashing
does 'em any good. After all, our people are like the British, full o'
contempt for untried enemies. Do you recall how the red-coats went
swaggering about that matter o' Bunker Hill? They make no more frontal
attacks now, but lay ambuscades, and thank their stars for the
opportunity."

A soldier, driving an ox-team behind us, began to sing that melancholy
ballad called "St. Clair's Defeat." The entire company joined in the
chorus, bewailing the late disaster at Ticonderoga, till Jack Mount,
nigh frantic with disgust, leaped up into the cart and bawled out:

"If you must sing, damn you, I'll give something that rings!"

And he lifted his deep, full-throated voice, sounding the marching song
of "Morgan's Men."

     "The Lord He is our rampart and our buckler and our shield!
     We must aid Him cleanse His temple; we must follow Him afield.
     To His wrath we leave the guilty, for their punishment is sure;
     To His justice the downtrodden, for His mercy shall endure!"

And out of the darkness the ringing chorus rose, sweeping the column
from end to end, and the echoing drums crashed amen!

Yet there is a time for all things--even for praising God.



XVIII

ORISKANY

It is due, no doubt, to my limited knowledge of military matters and to
my lack of practical experience that I did not see the battle of
Oriskany as our historians have recorded it; nor did I, before or during
the affair, notice any intelligent effort towards assuming the offensive
as described by those whose reports portray an engagement in which,
after the first onset, some semblance of military order reigned.

So, as I do not feel at liberty to picture Oriskany from the pens of
abler men, I must be content to describe only what I myself witnessed of
that sad and unnecessary tragedy.

For three days we had been camped near the clearing called Oriska, which
is on the south bank of the Mohawk. Here the volunteers and militia of
Tryon County were concentrating from Fort Dayton in the utmost disorder,
their camps so foolishly pitched, so slovenly in those matters
pertaining to cleanliness and health, so inadequately guarded, that I
saw no reason why our twin enemies, St. Leger and disease, should not
make an end of us ere we sighted the ramparts of Stanwix.

All night long the volunteer soldiery had been in-subordinate and
riotous in the hamlet of Oriska, thronging the roads, shouting, singing,
disputing, clamoring to be led against the enemy. Popular officers were
cheered, unpopular officers jeered at, angry voices raised outside
headquarters, demanding to know why old Honikol Herkimer delayed the
advance. Even officers shouted, "Forward! forward! Wake up Honikol!" And
spoke of the old General derisively, even injuriously, to their own
lasting disgrace.

Towards dawn, when I lay down on the floor of a barn to sleep, the
uproar had died out in a measure; but lights still flickered in the camp
where soldiers were smoking their pipes and playing cards by the flare
of splinter-wood torches. As for the pickets, they paid not the
slightest attention to their duties, continually leaving their posts to
hobnob with neighbors; and the indiscipline alarmed me, for what could
one expect to find in men who roamed about where it pleased them,
howling their dissatisfaction with their commander, and addressing their
officers by their first names?

At eight o'clock on that oppressive August morning, while writing a
letter to my cousin Dorothy, which an Oneida had promised to deliver, he
being about to start with a message to Governor Clinton, I was
interrupted by Jack Mount, who came into the barn, saying that a company
of officers were quarrelling in front of the sugar-shack occupied as
headquarters.

I folded my letter, sealed it with a bit of blue balsam gum, and bade
Mount deliver it to the Oneida runner, while I stepped up the road.

Of all unseemly sights that I have ever had the misfortune to witness,
what I now saw was the most shameful. I pushed and shouldered my way
through a riotous mob of soldiers and teamsters which choked the
highway; loud, angry voices raised in reproach or dispute assailed my
ears. A group of militia officers were shouting, shoving, and
gesticulating in front of the tent where, rigid in his arm-chair, the
General sat, grim, narrow-eyed, silent, smoking a short clay pipe. Bolt
upright, behind him, stood his chief scout and interpreter, a superb
Oneida, in all the splendor of full war-paint, blazing with scarlet.

Colonel Cox, a swaggering, intrusive, loud-voiced, and smartly uniformed
officer, made a sign for silence and began haranguing the old man,
evidently as spokesman for the party of impudent malcontents grouped
about him. I heard him demand that his men be led against the British
without further delay. I heard him condemn delay as unreasonable and
unwarrantable, and the terms of speech he used were unbecoming to
an officer.

"We call on you, sir, in the name of Tryon County, to order us forward!"
he said, loudly. "We are ready. For God's sake give the order, sir!
There is no time to waste, I tell you!"

The old General removed the pipe from his teeth and leaned a little
forward in his chair.

"Colonel Cox," he said, "I haff Adam Helmer to Stanvix sent, mit der
opject of inviting Colonel Gansevoort to addack py de rear ven ve addack
py dot left flank.

"So soon as Helmer comes dot fort py, Gansevoort he fire cannon; und so
soon I hear cannon, I march! Not pefore, sir; not pefore!"

"How do we know that Helmer and his men will ever reach Stanwix?"
shouted Colonel Paris, impatiently.

"Ve vait, und py un' py ve know," replied Herkimer, undisturbed.

"He may be dead and scalped by now," sneered Colonel Visscher.

"Look you, Visscher," said the old General; "it iss I who am here to
answer for your safety. Now comes Spencer, my Oneida, mit a pelt, who
svears to me dot Brant und Butler an ambuscade haff made for me. Vat I
do? Eh? I vait for dot sortie? Gewiss!"

He waved his short pipe.

"For vy am I an ass to march me py dot ambuscade? Such a foolishness iss
dot talk! I stay me py Oriskany till I dem cannon hear."

A storm of insolent protest from the mob of soldiers greeted his
decision; the officers gesticulated and shouted insultingly, shoving
forward to the edge of the porch. Fists were shaken at him, cries of
impatience and contempt rose everywhere. Colonel Paris flung his sword
on the ground. Colonel Cox, crimson with anger, roared: "If you delay
another moment the blood of Gansevoort's men be on your head!"

Then, in the tumult, a voice called out: "He's a Tory! We are betrayed!"
And Colonel Cox shouted: "He dares not march! He is a coward!"

White to the lips, the old man sprang from his chair, narrow eyes
ablaze, hands trembling. Colonel Bellinger and Major Frey caught him by
the arm, begging him to remain firm in his decision.

"Py Gott, no!" he thundered, drawing his sword. "If you vill haff it so,
your blood be on your heads! Vorwaerts!"

It is not for me to blame him in his wrath, when, beside himself with
righteous fury, he gave the bellowing yokels their heads and swept on
with them to destruction. The mutinous fools who had called him coward
and traitor fell back as their outraged commander strode silently
through the disordered ranks, noticing neither the proffered apologies
of Colonel Paris nor the stammered excuses of Colonel Cox. Behind him
stalked the tall Oneida, silent, stern, small eyes flashing. And now
began the immense uproar of departure; confused officers ran about
cursing and shouting; the smashing roll of the drums broke out, beating
the assembly; teamsters rushed to harness horses; dismayed soldiers
pushed and struggled through the mass, searching for their regiments
and companies.

Mounted on a gaunt, gray horse, the General rode through the disorder,
quietly directing the incompetent militia officers in their tasks of
collecting their men; and behind him, splendidly horsed and caparisoned,
cantered the tall Oneida, known as Thomas Spencer the Interpreter, calm,
composed, inscrutable eyes fixed on his beloved leader and friend.

The drums of the Canajoharie regiment were beating as the drummers swung
past me, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, sweat pouring down their
sunburned faces; then came Herkimer, all alone, sitting his saddle like
a rock, the flush of anger still staining his weather-ravaged visage,
his small, wrathful eyes fixed on the north.

Behind him rode Colonels Cox and Paris, long, heavy swords drawn,
heading the Canajoharie regiment, which pressed forward excitedly. The
remaining regiments of Tryon County militia followed, led by Colonel
Seeber, Colonel Bellenger, Majors Frey, Eisenlord, and Van Slyck. Then
came the baggage-wagons, some drawn by oxen, some by four horses; and in
the rear of these rode Colonel Visscher, leading the Caughnawaga
regiment, closing the dusty column.

"Damn them!" growled Elerson to Murphy, "they're advancing without
flanking-parties or scouts. I wish Dan'l Morgan was here."

"'Tis th' Gineral's jooty to luk out f'r his throops, not Danny Morgan's
or mine," replied the big rifleman in disgust.

The column halted. I signalled my men to follow me and hastened along
the flanks under a fire of chaff: "Look at young buckskins! There go
Morgan's macaronis! God help the red-coats this day! How's the scalp
trade, son?"

Herkimer was sitting his horse in the middle of the road as I came up;
and he scowled down at me when I gave him the officer's salute and stood
at attention beside his stirrup.

"Veil, you can shpeak," he said, bluntly; "efery-body shpeaks but me!"

I said that I and my riflemen were at his disposal if he desired leaders
for flanking-parties or scouts; and his face softened as he listened,
looking down at me in silence.

"Sir," he said, "it iss to my shame I say dot my sodgers command me, not
I my sodgers."

Then, looking back at Colonel Cox, he added, bitterly:

"I haff ordered flanking-parties and scouts, but my officers, who know
much more than I, haff protested against dot useless vaste of time. I
thank you, sir; I can your offer not accept."

The drums began again; the impatient Palatine regiment moved forward,
yelling their approval, and we fell back to the roadside, while the
boisterous troops tramped past, cheering, singing, laughing in their
excitement. Mechanically we fell in behind the Caughnawagas, who formed
the rear-guard, and followed on through the dust; meaning to go with
them only a mile or so before we started back across country with the
news which I was now at liberty to take in person to General Schuyler.

For I considered my mission at an end. In one thing only had I failed:
Walter Butler was still free; but now that he commanded a company of
outlaws and savages in St. Leger's army, I, of course, had no further
hope of arresting him or of dealing with him in any manner save on the
battle-field.

So at last I felt forced to return to Varick Manor; but the fear of the
dread future was in me, and all the hopeless misery of a hopeless
passion made of me a coward, so that I shrank from the pain I must
surely inflict and endure. Kinder for her, kinder for me, that we should
never meet again.

Not that I desired to die. I was too young in life and love to wish for
death as a balm. Besides, I knew it could not bring us peace. Still, it
was one solution of a problem otherwise so utterly hopeless that I,
heartsick, had long since wearied of the solving and carried my hurt
buried deep, fearful lest my prying senses should stir me to disinter
the dead hope lying there.

Absence renders passion endurable. But at sight of her I loved I knew I
could not endure it; and, uncertain of myself, having twice nigh failed
under the overwhelming provocations of a love returned, I shrank from
the coming duel 'twixt love and duty which must once more be fought
within my breast.

Nor could my duty, fighting blindly, expect encouragement from her I
loved, save at the last gasp and under the heel of love. Then, only, at
the very last would she save me; for there was that within her which
revolted at a final wrong, and I knew that not even our twin passion
could prevail to stamp out the last spark of conscience and slay our
souls forever.

Brooding, as I trudged forward through the dust, I became aware that the
drums had ceased their beating, and that the men were marching quietly
with little laughter or noise of song.

The heat was intense, although a black cloud had pushed up above the
west, veiling the sun. Flies swarmed about the column; sweat poured from
men and horses; the soldiers rolled back their sleeves and plodded on,
muskets a-trail and coats hanging over their shoulders. Once, very far
away, the looming horizon was veined with lightning; and, after a long
time, thunder sounded.

We had marched northward on a rutty road some two miles or more from
our camp at Oriska, and I was asking Mount how near we were to the old
Algonquin-Iroquois trail which runs from the lakes across the wilderness
to the healing springs at Saratoga, when the column halted and I heard
an increasing confusion of voices from the van.

"There's a ravine ahead," said Elerson. "I'm thinking they'll have
trouble with these wagons, for there's a swamp at the bottom and only a
log-road across."

"Tis the proper shpot f'r to ambuscade us," observed Murphy, craning his
neck and standing on tiptoe to see ahead.

We walked forward and sat down on the bank close to the brow of the
hill. Directly ahead a ravine, shaped like a half-moon, cut the road,
and the noisy Canajoharie regiment was marching into it. The bottom of
the ravine appeared to be a swamp, thinly timbered with tamarack and
blue-beech saplings, where the reeds and cattails grew thick, and
little, dark pools of water spread, all starred with water-lilies,
shining intensely white in the gloom of the coming storm.

"There do be wild ducks in thim rushes," said Murphy, musingly. "Sure I
count it sthrange, Jack Mount, that thim burrds sit quiet-like an' a
screechin' rigiment marchin' acrost that log-road."

"You mean that somebody has been down there before and scared the ducks
away?" I asked.

"Maybe, sorr," he replied, grimly.

Instinctively we leaned forward to scan the rising ground on the
opposite side of the ravine. Nothing moved in the dense thickets. After
a moment Mount said quietly: "I'm a liar or there's a barked twig
showing raw wood alongside of that ledge."

He glanced at the pan of his rifle, then again fixed his keen, blue
eyes on the tiny glimmer of white which even I could distinguish now,
though Heaven only knows how his eyes had found it in all that tangle.

"That's raw wood," he repeated.

"A deer might bark a twig," said I.

"Maybe, sorr," muttered Murphy; "but there's divil a deer w'ud nibble
sheep-laurel."

The men of the Canajoharie regiment were climbing the hill on the other
side of the ravine now. Colonel Cox came galloping back, shouting:
"Bring up those wagons! The road is clear! Move your men forward there!"

Whips cracked; the vehicles rattled off down hill, drivers yelling,
soldiers pushing the heavy wheels forward over the log-road below which
spurted water as the bumping wagons struck the causeway.

I remember that Colonel Cox had just drawn bridle, half-way up the
opposite incline, and was leaning forward in his saddle to watch the
progress of an ox-team, when a rifle-shot rang out and he tumbled clean
out of his saddle, striking the shallow water with a splash.

Then hell itself broke loose in that black ravine; volley on volley
poured into the Canajoharie regiment; officers fell from their horses;
drivers reeled and pitched forward under the heels of their plunging
teams; wagons collided and broke down, choking the log-road. Louder and
louder the terrific yells of the outlaws and savages rang out on our
flanks; I saw our soldiers in the ravine running frantically in all
directions, falling on the log-road, floundering waist-deep in the water
and mud, slipping, stumbling, staggering; while faster and faster
cracked the hidden rifles, and the pitiless bullets pelted them from the
heights above.

"Stand! Stand! you fools!" bawled Elerson. "Take to the timber! Every
man to a tree! For God's sake remember Braddock!"

"Look out!" shouted Mount, dragging me with him to a rock. "Close up,
Elerson! Close up, Murphy!"

Straight into the stupefied ranks of the Caughnawaga company came
leaping the savages, shooting, stabbing, clubbing the dazed men,
dragging them from the ranks with shrieks of triumph. I saw one
half-naked creature, awful in his paint, run up and strike a soldier
full in the face with his fist, then dash out his brains with a
death-maul and tear his scalp off.

Murphy and Mount were loading and firing steadily; Elerson and I kept
our rifles ready for a rush. I was perfectly stunned; the spectacle did
not seem real to me.

The Caughnawaga men, apparently roused from their momentary stupor, fell
back into small squads, shooting in every direction; and the savages,
unable to withstand a direct fire, sheered off and came bounding past us
to cover, yelping like timber-wolves. Three darted directly at us; a
young warrior, painted in bars of bright yellow, raised his hatchet to
hurl it; but Murphy's bullet spun him round like a top till he crashed
against a tree and fell in a heap, quivering all over.

The two others had leaped on Mount. Swearing, threatening, roaring with
rage, the desperate giant shook them off into our midst, and cut the
throat of one as he lay sprawling--a sickening spectacle, for the poor
wretch floundered and thrashed about among the leaves and sticks,
squirting thick blood all over us.

The remaining savage, a chief, by his lock and eagle-quill, had fastened
to Elerson's legs with the fury of a tree-cat, clawing and squalling,
while Murphy dealt him blow on blow with clubbed stock, and finally was
forced to shoot him so close that the rifle-flame set his greased
scalp-lock afire.

"Take to the timber, you Tryon County men! Remember Braddock!" shouted
Colonel Paris, plunging about on his wounded horse; while from every
tree and bush rang out the reports of the rifles; and the steady stream
of bullets poured into the Caughnawaga regiment, knocking the men down
the hill-side into the struggling mass below. Some dropped dead where
they had been shot; some rolled to the log-road; some fell into the
marsh, splashing and limping about like crippled wild fowl.

"Advance der Palatine regiment!" thundered Herkimer. "Clear avay dot
oxen-team!"

A drummer-boy of the Palatines beat the charge. I can see him yet, a
curly-haired youngster, knee-deep in the mud, his white, frightened face
fixed on his commander. They shot his drum to pieces; he beat steadily
on the flapping parchment.

Across the swamp the Palatines were doggedly climbing the <DW72> in the
face of a terrible discharge. Herkimer led them. As they reached the
crest of the plateau, and struggled up and over, a rush of men in green
uniforms seemed to swallow the entire Palatine regiment. I saw them
bayonet Major Eisenlord and finish him with their rifle-stocks; they
stabbed Major Van Slyck, and hurled themselves at the mounted Oneida.
Hatchet flashing, the interpreter swung his horse straight into the
yelling onset and went down, smothered under a mass of enemies.

"Vorwaerts!" thundered Herkimer, standing straight up in his stirrups;
but they shot him out of his saddle and closed with the Palatines,
hilt to hilt.

Major Frey and Colonel Bellenger fell under their horses, Colonel Seeber
dropped dead into the ravine, Captain Graves was dragged from the ranks
and butchered by bayonets; but those stubborn Palatines calmly divided
into squads, and their steady fusillade stopped the rush of the Royal
Greens and sent the flanking savages howling to cover.

Mount, Murphy, Elerson, and I lay behind a fallen hemlock, awaiting the
flank attack which we now understood must surely come. For our regiments
were at last completely surrounded, facing outward in an irregular
circle, the front held by the Palatines, the rear by the Caughnawagas,
the west by part of the Canajoharie regiment, and the east by a fraction
of unbrigaded militia, teamsters, batt-men, bateaux-men, and half a
dozen volunteer rangers reinforced by my three riflemen.

The scene was real enough to me now. Jack Mount, kneeling beside me, was
attempting to clean the blood from himself and Elerson with handfuls of
dried leaves. Murphy lay on his belly, watching the forest in front of
us, and his blue eyes seemed suffused with a light of their own in the
deepening gloom of the gathering thunder-storm. My nerves were all
a-quiver; the awful screaming from the ravine had never ceased for an
instant, and in that darkening, slimy pit I could still see a swaying
mass of men on the causeway, locked in a death-struggle. To and fro they
reeled; hatchet and knife and gun-stock glittered, rising and falling in
the twilight of the storm-cloud; the flames from the rifles
flashed crimson.

"Kape ye're eyes to the front, sorr; they do be comin'!" cried Murphy,
springing briskly to his feet.

I looked ahead into the darkening woods; the Caughnawaga men were
falling back, taking station behind trees; Mount stepped to the shelter
of a big oak; Elerson leaped to cover under a pine; a Caughnawaga
bateaux-man darted past me, stationing himself on my right behind the
trunk of a dapple beech. Suddenly an Indian showed himself close in
front; the Caughnawaga man fired and missed; and, quicker than I can
write it, the savage was on him before he could reload and had brained
him with a single castete-stroke. I fired, but the Mohawk was too quick
for me, and a moment later he bounded back into the brush while the
forest rang with his triumphant scalp-yell.

"That's what they're doing in front!" shouted Elerson. "When a soldier
fires they're on him before he can reload!"

"Two men to a tree!" roared Jack Mount. "Double up there, you
Caughnawaga men!"

Elerson glided cautiously to the oak which sheltered Mount; Murphy crept
forward to my tree.

"Bedad!" he muttered, "let the ondacent divils dhraw ye're fire an'
welcome. I've a pill to purge 'em now. Luk at that, sorr! Shteady!
Shteady an' cool does it!"

A savage, with his face painted half white and half red, stepped out
from the thicket and dropped just as I fired. The next instant he came
leaping straight for our tree, castete poised.

Murphy fired. The effect of the shot was amazing; the savage stopped
short in mid-career as though he had come into collision with a stone
wall; then Elerson fired, knocking him flat, head doubled under his
naked shoulders, feet trailing across a rotting log.

"Save ye're powther, Dave!" sang out Murphy. "Sure he was clean kilt as
he shtood there. Lave a dead man take his own time to fall!"

I had reloaded, and Murphy was coolly priming, when on our right the
rifles began speaking faster and faster, and I heard the sound of men
running hard over the dry leaves, and the thudding gallop of horses.

"A charge!" said Murphy. "There do be horses comin', too. Have they
dhragoons?--I dunnoa. Ha! There they go! 'Tis McCraw's outlaws or I'm a
Dootchman!"

A shrill cock-crow rang out in the forest.

"'Tis the chanticleer scalp-yell of that damned loon, Francy McCraw!" he
cried, fiercely. "Give it to 'em, b'ys! Shoot hell into the
dommed Tories!"

The Caughnawaga rifles rang out from every tree; a white man came
running through the wood, and I instinctively held my fire.

"Shoot the dhirrty son of a shlut!" yelled Murphy; and Elerson shot him
and knocked him down, but the man staggered to his feet again, clutching
at his wounded throat, and reeled towards us. He fell again, got on his
knees, crawled across the dead leaves until he was scarce fifteen yards
away, then fell over and lay there, coughing.

"A dead wan,"' said Murphy, calmly; "lave him."

McCraw's onset passed along our extreme left; the volleys grew furious;
the ghastly cock-crow rang out shrill and piercing, and we fired at long
range where the horses were passing through the rifle-smoke.

Then, in the roar of the fusillade, a bright flash lighted up the
forest; a thundering crash followed, and the storm burst, deluging the
woods with rain. Trees rocked and groaned, dashing their tops together;
the wind rose to a hurricane; the rain poured down, beating the leaves
from the trees, driving friend and foe to shelter. The reports of the
rifles ceased; the war-yelp died away. Peal on peal of thunder shook the
earth; the roar of the tempest rose to a steady shriek through which the
terrific smashing of falling trees echoed above the clash of branches.

Soaked, stunned, blinded by the awful glare of the lightning, I crouched
under the great oak, which rocked and groaned, convulsed to its bedded
roots, so that the ground heaved under me as I lay.

I could not see ten feet ahead of me, so thick was the gloom with rain
and flying leaves and twigs. The thunder culminated in a series of
fearful crashes; bolt after bolt fell, illuminating the flying chaos of
the tempest; then came a stunning silence, slowly filled with the steady
roar of the rain.

A gray pallor grew in the woods. I looked down into the ravine and saw a
muddy lake there full of dead men and horses.

The wounded Tory near us was still choking and coughing, dying hard out
there in the rain. Mount and Elerson crept over to where we lay, and,
after a moment's conference, Murphy led us in a long circle, swinging
gradually northward until we stumbled into the drenched Palatine
regiment, which was still holding its ground. There was no firing on
either side; the guns were too wet.

On a wooded knoll to the left a group of dripping men had gathered.
Somebody said that the old General lay there, smoking and directing the
defence, his left leg shattered by a ball. I saw the blue smoke of his
pipe curling up under the tree, but I did not see him.

The wind had died out; the thunder rolled off to the northward,
muttering among the hills; rain fell less heavily; and I saw wounded men
tearing strips from their soaking shirts to bind their hurts. Details
from the Canajoharie regiment passed us searching the underbrush for
their dead.

I also noticed with a shudder that Elerson and Murphy carried two fresh
scalps apiece, tied to the belts of their hunting-shirts; but I said
nothing, having been warned by Jack Mount that they considered it their
prerogative to take the scalps of those who had failed to take theirs.

How they could do it I cannot understand, for I had once seen the body
of a scalped man, with the skin, released from the muscles of the
forehead, hanging all loose and wrinkled over the face.

With the ceasing of the rain came the renewed crack of the rifles and
the whiz of bullets. We took post on the extreme left, firing
deliberately at McCraw's renegades; and I do not know whether I hit any
or not, but five men did I see fall under the murderous aim of Murphy;
and I know that Elerson shot two savages, for he went down into the
ravine after them and returned with the wet, red trophies.

The sun was now shining again with a heat so fierce and intense that the
earth smoked vapor all around us. It was at this time that I,
personally, experienced the only close fighting of the day, which
brought a sudden end to this most amazing and bloody skirmish.

I had been lying full length behind a bush in the lines of the Palatine
regiment, eating a crust of bread; for that strange battle-hunger had
been gnawing at my vitals for an hour. Some of the men were eating, some
firing; the steaming heat almost suffocated me as I lay there, yet I
munched on, ravenous as a December wolf.

I heard somebody shout: "Here they come!" and, filling my mouth with
bread, I rose to my knees to see.

A body of troops in green uniforms came marching steadily towards us,
led by a red-coated officer on horseback; and all around me the
Palatines were springing to their feet, uttering cries of rage, cursing
the oncoming troops, and calling out to them by name.

For the detachment of Royal Greens which now advanced to the assault
was, it appeared, composed of old acquaintances and neighbors of the
Palatines, who had fled to join the Tories and Indians and now returned
to devastate their own county.

Lashed to ungovernable fury by the sight of these hated renegades, the
entire regiment leaped forward with a roar and rushed on the advancing
detachment, stabbing, shooting, clubbing, throttling. Mutual hatred
made the contest terrible beyond words; no quarter was given on either
side. I saw men strangle each other with naked hands; kick each other to
death, fighting like dogs, tooth and nail, rolling over the wet ground.

The tide had not yet struck us; we fired at their mounted officer, whom
Elerson declared he recognized as Major Watts, brother-in-law to Sir
John Johnson; and presently, as usual, Murphy hit him, so that the young
fellow dropped forward on his saddle and his horse ran away, flinging
him against a tree with a crash, doubtless breaking every bone in
his body.

Then, above the tumult, out of the north came booming three
cannon-shots, the signal from the fort that Herkimer had desired to
wait for.

A detachment from the Canajoharie regiment surged out of the woods with
a ringing cheer, pointing northward, where, across a clearing, a body of
troops were rapidly advancing from the direction of the fort.

"The sortie! The sortie!" shouted the soldiers, frantic with joy. Murphy
and I ran towards them; Elerson yelled: "Be careful! Look at their
uniforms! Don't go too close to them!"

"They're coming from the north!" bawled Mount. "They're our own people,
Dave! Come on!"

Captain Jacob Gardinier, with a dozen Caughnawaga men, had already
reached the advancing troops, when Murphy seized my arm and halted me,
crying out, "Those men are wearing their coats turned inside out!
They're Johnson's Greens!"

At the same instant I recognized Colonel John Butler as the officer
leading them; and he knew me and, without a word, fired his pistol at
me. We were so near them now that a Tory caught hold of Murphy and tried
to stab him, but the big Irishman kicked him headlong and rushed into
the mob, swinging his long hatchet, followed by Gardinier and his
Caughnawaga men, whom the treachery had transformed into demons.

In an instant all around me men were swaying, striking, shooting,
panting, locked in a deadly embrace. A sweating, red-faced soldier
closed with me; chin to chin, breast to breast we wrestled; and I shall
never forget the stifling struggle--every detail remains, his sunburned
face, wet with sweat and powder-smeared; his irregular teeth showing
when I got him by the throat, and the awful change that came over his
visage when Jack Mount shoved the muzzle of his rifle against the
struggling fellow and shot him through the stomach.

Freed from his death-grip, I stood breathing convulsively, hands
clinched, one foot on my fallen rifle. An Indian ran past me, chased by
Elerson and Murphy, but the savage dodged into the underbrush,
shrieking, "Oonah! Oonah! Oonah!" and Elerson came back, waving his
deer-hide cap.

Everywhere Tories, Royal Greens, and Indians were running into the
woods; the wailing cry, "Oonah! Oonah!" rose on all sides now.
Gardinier's Caughnawaga men were shooting rapidly; the Palatines, master
of their reeking brush-field, poured a heavy fire into the detachment of
retreating Greens, who finally broke and ran, dropping sack and rifle in
their flight, and leaving thirty of their dead under the feet of the
Palatines.

The soldiers of the Canajoharie regiment came up, swarming over a wooded
knoll on the right, only to halt and stand, silently leaning on
their rifles.

For the battle of Oriskany was over.

There was no cheering from the men of Tryon County. Their victory had
been too dearly bought; their losses too terrible; their triumph
sterile, for they could not now advance the crippled fragments of their
regiments and raise the siege in the face of St. Leger's regulars and
Walter Butler's Rangers.

Their combat with Johnson's Greens and Brant's Mohawks had been fought;
and, though masters of the field, they could do no more than hold their
ground. Perhaps the bitter knowledge that they must leave Stanwix to its
fate, and that, too, through their own disobedience, made the better
soldiers of them in time. But it was a hard and dreadful lesson; and I
saw men crying, faces hidden in their powder-blackened hands, as the
dying General was borne through the ranks, lying gray and motionless on
his hemlock litter.

And this is all that I myself witnessed of that shameful ambuscade and
murderous combat, fought some two miles north of the dirty camp, and now
known as the Battle of Oriskany.

That night we buried our dead; one hundred on the field where they had
fallen, two hundred and fifty in the burial trenches at
Oriskany--thirty-five wagon-loads in all. Scarcely an officer of rank
remained to lead the funeral march when the muffled drums of the
Palatines rolled at midnight, and the smoky torches moved, and the
dead-wagons rumbled on through the suffocating darkness of a starless
night. We had few wounded; we took no prisoners; Oriskany meant death.
We counted only thirty men disabled and some score missing.

"God grant the missing be safely dead," prayed our camp chaplain at the
burial trench. We knew what that meant; worse than dead were the
wretched men who had fallen alive into the hands of old John Butler and
his son, Walter, and that vicious drunkard, Barry St. Leger, who had
offered, over his own signature, two hundred and forty dollars a dozen
for prime Tryon County scalps.

I slept little that night, partly from the excitement of my first
serious combat, partly because of the terrible heat. Our outposts, now
painfully overzealous and alert, fired off their muskets at every
fancied sound or movement, and these continual alarms kept me awake,
though Mount and Murphy slept peacefully, and Elerson yawned on guard.

Towards sunrise rain fell heavily, but brought no relief from the heat;
the sun, a cherry-red ball, hung a hand's-breadth over the forests when
the curtain of rain faded away. The riflemen, curled up in the hay on
the barn floor, snored on, unconscious; the batt-horses crunched and
munched in the manger; flies whirled and swarmed over a wheelbarrow
piled full of dead soldier's shoes, which must to-day be distributed
among the living.

All the loathsome and filthy side of war seemed concentrated around the
barn-yard, where sleepy, unshaven, half-dressed soldiers were burning
the under-clothes of a man who had died of the black measles; while a
great, brawny fellow, naked to the waist and smeared from hair to ankles
with blood, butchered sheep, so that the army might eat that day.

The thick stench of the burning clothing, the odor of blood, the piteous
bleating of the doomed creatures sickened me; and I made my way out of
the barn and down to the river, where I stripped and waded out to wash
me and my clothes.

A Caughnawaga soldier gave me a bit of soap; and I spent the morning
there. By noon the fierce heat of the sun had dried my clothes; by two
o'clock our small scout of four left the Stanwix and Johnstown road and
struck out through the unbroken wilderness for German Flatts.



XIX

THE HOME TRAIL

For eleven days we lay at German Flatts, Colonel Visscher begging us to
aid in the defence of that threatened village until the women and
children could be conveyed to Johnstown. But Sir John Johnson remained
before Stanwix, and McCraw's riders gave the village wide berth, and on
the 18th of August we set out for Varicks'.

Warned by our extreme outposts, we bore to the south, forced miles out
of our course to avoid the Oneida country, where a terrific little war
was raging. For the Senecas, Cayugas, a few Mohawks, and McCraw's
renegade Tories, furious at the neutral and pacific attitude of the
Oneidas towards our people, had suddenly fallen upon them, tooth and
nail, vowing that the Oneida nation should perish from the earth for
their treason to the Long House.

We skirted the doomed region cautiously, touching here and there the
fringe of massacre and fire, often scenting smoke, sometimes hearing a
distant shot. Once we encountered an Oneida runner, painted blue and
white, and naked save for the loin-cloth, who told us of the civil war
that was already rending the Long House; and I then understood more
fully what Magdalen Brant had done for our cause, and how far-reaching
had been the effects of her appearance at the False-Faces' council-fire.

The Oneida appeared to be disheartened. He sullenly admitted to us that
the Cayugas had scattered his people and laid their village in ashes; he
cursed McCraw fiercely and promised a dreadful retaliation on any
renegade captured. He also described the fate of the Oriskany prisoners
and some bateaux-men taken by Walter Butler's Rangers near Wood Creek;
and I could scarcely endure to listen, so horrid were the details of our
soldiers' common fate, where Mohawk and Tory, stripped and painted
alike, conspired to invent atrocities undreamed of for their
wretched victims.

It was then that I heard for the second time the term "Blue-eyed
Indian," meaning white men stained, painted, and disguised as savages.
More terrifying than the savages themselves, it appeared, were the
blue-eyed Indians to the miserable settlers of Tryon. For hellish
ingenuity and devilish cruelty these mock savages, the Oneida assured
us, had nothing to learn from their red comrades; and I shall never be
able to efface from my mind the memory of what we saw, that very day, in
a lonely farm-house on the flats of the Mohawk; nor was it necessary
that McCraw should have left his mark on the shattered door--a cock
crowing, drawn in outline by a man's forefinger steeped in blood--to
enlighten those who might not recognize the ghastly work as his.

We stayed there for three hours to bury the dead, an old man and woman,
a young mother, and five children, the youngest an infant not a year
old. All had been scalped; even the watch-dog lay dead near the bloody
cradle. We dug the shallow graves with difficulty, having nothing to
work with save our hunting-knives and some broken dishes which we found
in the house; and it was close to noon before we left the lonely flat
and pushed forward through miles of stunted willow growth towards the
river road which led to Johnstown.

I shall never forget Mount's set face nor Murphy's terrible, vacant
stare as we plodded on in absolute silence. Elerson led us on a steady
trot hour after hour, till, late in the afternoon, we crossed the river
road and wheeled into it exhausted.

The west was all aglow; cleared land and fences lay along the roadside;
here and there houses loomed up in the red, evening light, but their
inhabitants were gone, and not a sign of life remained about them save
for the circling swallows whirling in and out of the blackened chimneys.

So still, so sad this solitude that the sudden chirping of a robin in
the evening shadows startled us.

The sun sank behind the forest, turning the river to a bloody red; a fox
yapped and yapped from a dark hill-side; the moon's yellow light flashed
out through the trees; and, with the coming of the moon, far in the
wilderness the owls began and the cries of the night-hawks died away
in the sky.

The first human being that we encountered was a miller riding an ancient
horse towards a lane which bordered a noisy brook.

When he discovered us he whipped out a pistol and bade us stand where we
were; and it took all my persuasion to convince him that we were not
renegades from McCraw's band.

We asked for news, but he had none, save that a heavy force of our
soldiers was lying by the roadside some two miles below on their way to
relieve Fort Stanwix. The General, he believed, was named Arnold, and
the troops were Massachusetts men; that was all he knew.

He seemed stupid or perhaps stunned, having lost three sons in a battle
somewhere near Bennington, and had that morning received word of his
loss. How the battle had gone he did not know; he was on his way up the
creek to lock his mill before joining the militia at Johnstown. He was
not too old to carry the musket he had carried at Braddock's battle.
Besides, his boys were dead, and there was no one in his family except
himself to help our Congress fight the red-coats.

We watched him ride off into the darkness, gray head erect, pistol
shining in his hand; then moved on, searching the distance for the
outpost we knew must presently hail us. And, sure enough, from the
shadow of a clump of trees came the smart challenge: "Halt! Who
goes there?"

"Officer from Herkimer and scout of three with news for General
Schuyler!" I answered.

"Halt, officer with scout! Sergeant of the guard! Post number three!"

Dark figures swarmed in the road ahead; a squad of men came up on the
double.

"Advance officer!" rang out the summons; a torch blazed, throwing a red
glare around us; a red-faced old officer in brown and scarlet walked up
and took the packet of papers which I extended.

"Are you Captain Ormond?" he asked, curiously, glancing at the
endorsement on my papers.

I replied that I was, and named Murphy, Elerson, and Mount as my scout.

When the soldiers standing about heard the notorious names of men
already famed in ballad and story, they craned their necks to see, as my
tired riflemen filed into the lines; and the staff-officer made himself
exceedingly agreeable and civil, conducting us to a shelter made of
balsam branches, before which a smudge was burning.

"General Arnold has despatches for you, Captain Ormond," he said; "I am
Drummond, Brigade Major; we expected you at Varick Manor on the
ninth--you wrote to your cousin, Miss Varick, from Oriskany, you know."

A soldier came up with two headquarters lanterns which he hung on the
cross-bar of the open-faced hut; another soldier brought bread and
cheese, a great apple-pie, a jug of spring water, and a bottle of
brandy, with the compliments of Brigadier-General Arnold, and apologies
that neither cloth, glasses, nor cutlery were included in the
camp baggage.

"We're light infantry with a vengeance, Captain Ormond," said Major
Drummond, laughing; "we left at twenty-four hours' notice! Gad, sir! the
day before we started the General hadn't a squad under his orders; but
when Schuyler called for volunteers, and his brigadiers began to raise
hell at the idea of weakening the army to help Stanwix, Arnold came out
of his fit of sulks on the jump! 'Who'll follow me to Stanwix?' he
bawls; and, by gad, sir, the Massachusetts men fell over each other
trying to sign the rolls."

He laughed again, waving my papers in the air and slapping them down on
a knapsack.

"You will doubtless wish to hand these to the General yourself," he
said, pleasantly. "Pray, sir, do not think of standing on ceremony; I
have dined, Captain."

Mount, who had been furtively licking his lips and casting oblique
glances at the bread and cheese, fell to at a nod from me. Murphy and
Elerson joined him, bolting huge mouthfuls. I ate sparingly, having
little appetite left after the sights I had seen in that lonely house on
the Mohawk flats.

The gnats swarmed, but the smoke of the green-moss smudge kept them from
us in a measure. I asked Major Drummond how soon it might be convenient
for General Arnold to receive me, and he sent a young ensign to
headquarters, who presently returned saying that General Arnold was
making the rounds and would waive ceremony and stop at our post on
his return.

"There's a soldier, sir!" said Major Drummond, emphasizing his words
with a smart blow of his riding-cane on his polished quarter-boots.
"He's had us on a dog-trot since we started; up hill, down dale, across
the cursed Sacandaga swamps, through fords chin-high! By gad, sir! allow
me to tell you that nothing stopped us! We went through windfalls like
partridges; we crossed the hills like a herd o' deer in flight! We ran
as though the devil were snapping at our shanks! I'm half dead, thank
you--and my shins!--you should see where that razor-boned nag of mine
shaved bark enough off the trees with me to start every tannery between
the Fish-House and Half-moon!"

The ruddy-faced Major roared at the recital of his own misfortunes.
Mount and Murphy looked up with sympathetic grins; Elerson had fallen
asleep against the side of the shack, a bit of pie, half gnawed,
clutched in his brier-torn fist.

I had a pipe, but no tobacco; the Major filled my pipe, purring
contentedly; a soldier, at a sign from him, took Mount and Murphy to the
nearest fire, where there was a gill of grog and plenty of tobacco. I
roused Elerson, who gaped, bolted his pie with a single mighty effort,
and stumbled off after his comrades. Major Drummond squatted down
cross-legged before the smudge, lighting his corn-cob pipe from a bit of
glowing moss, and leaned back contentedly, crossing his arms behind
his head.

"I'm tired, too," he said; "we march again at midnight. If it's no
secret, I should like to know what's going on ahead there."

"It's no secret," I said, soberly; "the Senecas and Cayugas are
harrying the Oneidas; the renegades are riding the forest, murdering
women and infants. St. Leger is firing bombs at Stanwix, and Visscher is
holding German Flatts with some Caughnawaga militia."

"And Herkimer?" asked Drummond, gravely.

"Dead," I replied, in a low voice.

"Good gad, sir! I had not heard that!" he exclaimed.

"It is true, Major. The old man died while I was at German Flatts. They
say the amputation of his leg was a wretched piece of work.... He died
bolt upright in his bed, smoking his pipe, and reading aloud the
thirty-eighth Psalm.... His men are wild with grief, they say.... They
called him a coward the morning of Oriskany."

After a silence the Major's emotion dimmed his twinkling eyes; he
dragged a red bandanna handkerchief from his coat-tails and blew his
nose violently.

"All flesh is grass--eh, Captain? And some of it devilish poor grass at
that, eh? Well, well; we can't make an army in a day. But, by gad, sir,
we've done uncommonly well. You've heard of--but no, you haven't,
either. Here's news for you, friend, since you've been in the woods. On
the sixth, while you fellows were shooting down some three hundred and
fifty of the Mohawks, Royal Greens, and renegades, that sly old
wolverine, Marinus Willett, slipped out of the fort, fell on Sir John's
camp, and took twenty-one wagon-loads of provisions, blankets,
ammunition, and tools; also five British standards and every bit of
personal baggage belonging to Sir John Johnson, including his private
papers, maps, memoranda, and all orders and instructions for the
completed plans of campaign.... Wait, if you please, sir. That is
not all.

"On the sixteenth, old John Stark fell upon Baum's and Breyman's
Hessians at Bennington, killed and wounded over two hundred, captured
seven hundred; took a thousand stand of arms, a thousand fine dragoon
sabres, and four excellent field-cannon with limbers, harness, and
caissons.... And lost fourteen killed!"

Speechless at the good news, I could only lean across the smudge and
shake hands with him while he chuckled and slapped his knee, growing
ruddier in the face every moment.

"Where are the red-coats now?" he cried. "Look at 'em! Burgoyne, scared
witless, badgered, dogged from pillar to post, his army on the defensive
from Still water down to Half-moon; St. Leger, destitute of his camp
baggage, caught in his own wolf-pit, flinging a dozen harmless bombs at
Stanwix, and frightened half to death at every rumor from Albany;
McDonald chased out of the county; Mann captured, and Sir Henry Clinton
dawdling in New York and bothering his head over Washington while
Burgoyne, in a devil of a plight, sits yonder yelling for help!

"Where's the great invasion, Ormond? Where's the grand advance on the
centre? Where's the gigantic triple blow at the heart of this scurvy
rebellion? I don't know; do you?"

I shook my head, smilingly; he beamed upon me; we had a swallow of
brandy together, and I lay back, deathly tired, to wait for Arnold and
my despatches.

"That's right," commented the genial Major, "go to sleep while you can;
the General won't take it amiss--eh? What? Oh, don't mind me, my son.
Old codgers like me can get along without such luxuries as sleep. It's
the young lads who require sleep. Eh? Yes, sir; I'm serious. Wait till
you see sixty year! Then you'll understand.... So I'll just sit
here, ... and smoke, ... and talk away in a buzz-song, ... and that
will fix--"

       *       *       *       *       *

I looked up with a start; the Major had disappeared. In my eyes a
lantern was shining steadily. Then a shadow moved, and I turned and
stumbled to my feet, as a cloaked figure stepped into the shelter and
stood before me, peering into my eyes.

"I'm Arnold; how d'ye do," came a quick, nervous voice from the depths
of the military cloak. "I've a moment to stay here; we march in ten
minutes. Is Herkimer dead?"

I described his death in a few words.

"Bad, bad as hell!" he muttered, fingering his sword-hilt and staring
off into the darkness. "What's the situation above us? Gansevoort's
holding out, isn't he? I sent him a note to-night. Of course he's
holding out; isn't he?"

I made a short report of the situation as I knew it; the General looked
straight into my eyes as though he were not listening.

"Yes, yes," he said, impatiently. "I know how to deal with St. Leger and
Sir John--I wrote Gansevoort that I understood how to deal with them. He
has only to sit tight; I'll manage the rest."

His dark, lean, eager visage caught the lantern light as he turned to
scan the moonlit sky. "Ten minutes," he muttered; "we should strike
German Flatts by sundown to-morrow if our supplies come up." And, aloud,
with an abrupt and vigorous gesture, "McCraw's band are scalping the
settlers, they say?"

I told him what I had seen. He nodded, then his virile face changed and
he gave me a sulky look.

"Captain Ormond," he said, "folk say that I brood over the wrongs done
me by Congress. It's a lie; I don't care a damn about Congress--but let
it pass. What I wish to say is this: On the second of August the best
general in these United States except George Washington was deprived of
his command and superseded by a--a--thing named Gates.... I speak of
General Philip Schuyler, my friend, and now my fellow-victim."

Shocked and angry at the news of such injustice to the man whose
splendid energy had already paralyzed the British invasion of New York,
I stiffened up, rigid and speechless.

"Ho!" cried Arnold, with a disagreeable laugh. "It mads you, does it?
Well, sir, think of me who have lived to see five men promoted over my
head--and I left in the anterooms of Congress to eat my heart out! But
let that pass, too. By the eternal God, I'll show them what stuff is in
me! Let it pass, Ormond, let it pass."

He began to pace the ground, gnawing his thick lower lip, and if ever
the infernal fire darted from human eyes, I saw its baleful
flicker then.

With a heave of his chest and a scowl, he controlled his voice, stopping
in his nervous walk to face me again.

"Ormond, you've gone up higher--the commission is here." He pulled a
packet of papers from his breast-pocket and thrust them at me. "Schuyler
did it. He thinks well of you, sir. On the first of August he learned
that he was to be superseded. He told Clinton that you deserved a
commission for what you did at that Iroquois council-fire. Here it is;
you're to raise a regiment of rangers for local defence of the Mohawk
district.... I congratulate you, Colonel Ormond."

He offered his bony, nervous hand; I clasped it, dazed and speechless.

"Remember me," he said, eagerly. "Let me count on your voice at the next
council of war. You will not regret it, Colonel. Even if you go
higher--even if you rise over my luckless head, you will not regret the
friendship of Benedict Arnold. For, by Heaven, sir, I have it in me to
lead men; and they shall not keep me down, and they shall not fetter
me--no, not even this beribboned lap-dog Gates!... Stand my friend,
Ormond. I need every friend I have. And I promise you the world shall
hear of me one day!"

I shall never forget his worn and shadowy face, the long nose, the
strong, selfish chin, the devouring flame burning his soul out
through his eyes.

"Luck be with you!" he said, abruptly, extending his hand. Once more
that bony, fervid clasp, and he was gone.

A moment later the ground vibrated; a dark, massed column of troops
appeared in the moonlight, marching swiftly without drum-tap or spoken
command; the dim forms of mounted officers rode past like shadows
against the stars; vague shapes of wagons creaked after, rolling on
muffled wheels; more troops followed quickly; then the shadowy pageant
ended; and there was nothing before me but the moon in the sky above a
world of ghostly wilderness.

One camp lantern had been left for my use; by its nickering light I
untied the documents left me by Arnold; and, sorting the papers, chose
first my orders, reading the formal notice of my transfer from Morgan's
Rifles to the militia; then the order detailing me to the Mohawk
district, with headquarters at Varick Manor; and, finally, my commission
on parchment, signed by Governor Clinton and by Philip Schuyler,
Major-General Commanding the Department of the North.

It was, perhaps, the last official act as chief of department of this
generous man.

The next letter was in his own handwriting. I broke the heavy seal and
read:

     "ALBANY,

     "August 10, 1777.
     "Colonel George Ormond"

     "MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,--As you have perhaps heard rumors that
     General Gates has superseded me in command of the army now
     operating against General Burgoyne, I desire to confirm these
     rumors for your benefit.

     "My orders I now take from General Gates, without the
     slightest rancor, I assure you, or the least unworthy
     sentiment of envy or chagrin. Congress, in its wisdom, has
     ordered it; and I count him unspeakably base who shall serve
     his country the less ardently because of a petty and personal
     disappointment in ambitions unfulfilled.

     "I remain loyal in heart and deed to my country and to
     General Gates, who may command my poor talents in any manner
     he sees fitting.

     "I say this to you because I am an older man, and I know
     something of younger men, and I have liked you from the
     first. I say it particularly because, now that you also owe
     duty and instant obedience to General Gates, I do not wish
     your obedience retarded, or your sense of duty confused by
     any mistaken ideas of friendship to me or loyalty to
     my person.

     "In these times the individual is nothing, the cause
     everything. Cliques, cabals, political conspiracies are
     foolish, dangerous--nay, wickedly criminal. For, sir, as long
     as the world endures, a house divided against itself
     must fall.

     "Which leads me with greatest pleasure to mention your wise
     and successful diplomacy in the matter of the Long House.
     That house you have most cleverly divided against itself; and
     it must fall--it is tottering now, shaken to its foundations
     of centuries. Also, I have the pleasure to refer to your
     capture of the man Beacraft and his papers, disclosing a
     diabolical plan of murder. The man has been condemned by a
     court on the evidence as it stood, and he is now awaiting
     execution.

     "I have before me Colonel Visscher's partial report of the
     battle of Oriskany. Your name is not mentioned in this
     report, but, knowing you as I believe I do, I am satisfied
     that you did your full duty in that terrible affair;
     although, in your report to me by Oneida runner, you record
     the action as though you yourself were a mere spectator.

     "I note with pleasure your mention of the gallantry of your
     riflemen, Mount, Murphy, and Elerson, and have reported it to
     their company captain, Mr. Long, who will, in turn, bring it
     to the attention of Colonel Morgan.

     "I also note that you have not availed yourself of the
     war-services of the Oneidas, for which I beg to thank you
     personally.

     "I recall with genuine pleasure my visit to your uncle, Sir
     Lupus Varick, where I had the fortune to make your
     acquaintance and, I trust, your friendship.

     "Mrs. Schuyler joins me in kindest remembrance to you, and to
     Sir Lupus, whose courtesy and hospitality I have to-day had
     the honor to acknowledge by letter. Through your good office
     we take advantage of this opportunity to send our love to
     Miss Dorothy, who has won our hearts.

     "I am, sir, your most obedient,
     PHILIP SCHUYLER,
     Major-General.


     "P.S.--I had almost forgotten to congratulate you on your
     merited advancement in military rank, for which you may thank
     our wise and good Governor Clinton.

     "I shall not pretend to offer you unasked advice upon this
     happy occasion, though it is an old man's temptation to do
     so, perhaps even his prerogative. However, there are younger
     colonels than you, sir, in our service--ay, and brigadiers,
     too. So be humble, and lay not this honor with too much
     unction to your heart. Your friend,

     "PH. SCHUYLER."

I sat for a while staring at this good man's letter, then opened the
next missive.

     "HEADQUARTERS, DEPARTMENT OF THE NORTH, STILLWATER, August
     12, 1777.

     "Colonel George Ormond, on Scout:

     "SIR,--By order of Major-General Gates, commanding this
     department, you will, upon reception of this order, instantly
     repair to Varick Manor and report your arrival by express or
     a native runner to be trusted, preferably an Oneida. At nine
     o'clock, the day following your arrival at Varicks', you will
     leave on your journey to Stillwater, where you will report to
     General Gates for further orders.

     "Your small experience in military matters of organization
     renders it most necessary that you should be aided in the
     formation of your regiment of rangers by a detail from
     Colonel Morgan's Rifles, as well as by the advice of
     General Gates.

     "You will, therefore, retain the riflemen composing your
     scout, but attempt nothing towards enlisting your companies
     until you receive your instructions personally and in full
     from headquarters.

     "I am, sir,

     "Your very obedient servant,

     "WILKINSON,
     Adjutant-General.
     "For Major-General Gates, commanding."

"Why, in Heaven's name, should I lose time by journeying to
headquarters?" I said, aloud, looking up from my letter. Ah! There was
the difference between Schuyler, who picked his man, told him what he
desired, and left him to fulfil it, and Gates, who chose a man, flung
his inexperience into his face, and bade him twirl his thumbs and sit
idle until headquarters could teach him how to do what he had been
chosen to do, presumably upon his ability to do it!

A helpless sensation of paralysis came over me--a restless, confused
impression of my possible untrustworthiness, and of unfriendliness to me
in high quarters, even of a thinly veiled hostility to me.

What a letter! That was not the way to get work out of a
subordinate--this patronizing of possible energy and enthusiasm, this
cold dampening of ardor, as though ardor in itself were a reproach and
zeal required reproof.

Wondering why they had chosen me if they thought me a blundering and,
perhaps, mischievous zealot, I picked up a parcel, undirected, and broke
the string.

Out of it fell two letters. The writing was my cousin Dorothy's; and,
trembling all over in spite of myself, I broke the seal of the first. It
was undated:

     "DEAREST,--Your letter from Oriskany is before me. I am here
     in your room, the door locked, alone with your letter,
     overwhelmed with love and tenderness and fear for you.

     "They tell me that you have been made colonel of a regiment,
     and the honor thrills yet saddens me--all those colonels
     killed at Oriskany! Is it a post of special danger, dear?

     "Oh, my brave, splendid lover! with your quiet, steady eyes
     and your bright hair--you angel on earth who found me a child
     and left me an adoring woman--can it be that in this world
     there is such a thing as death for you? And could the world
     last without you?

       *       *       *       *       *

     "Ah me! dreary me! the love that is in me! Who could believe
     it? Who could doubt that it is divine and not inspired by
     hell as I once feared; it is so beautiful, so hopelessly
     beautiful, like that faint thrill of splendor that passes
     shadowing a dream where, for an instant, we think to see a
     tiny corner of heaven sparkling out through a million fathoms
     of terrific night.... Did you ever dream that?

       *       *       *       *       *

     "We have been gay here. Young Mr. Van Rensselaer came from
     Albany to heal the breach with father. We danced and had
     games. He is a good young man, this patroon and patriot.
     Listen, dear: he permitted all his tenants to join the army
     of Gates, cancelled their rent-rolls during their service,
     and promised to provide for their families. It will take a
     fortune, but his deeds are better than his words.

     "Only one thing, dear, that troubled me. I tell it to you, as
     I tell you everything, knowing you to be kind and pitiful. It
     is this: he asked father's permission to address me, not
     knowing I was affianced. How sad is hopeless love!

     "There was a battle at Bennington, where General Stark's men
     whipped the Brunswick troops and took equipments for a
     thousand cavalry, so that now you should see our Legion of
     Horse, so gay in their buff-and-blue and their new helmets
     and great, spurred jack-boots and bright sabres!

     "Ruyven was stark mad to join them; and what do you think?
     Sir Lupus consented, and General Schuyler lent his kind
     offices, and to-day, if you please, my brother is strutting
     about the yard in the uniform of a Cornet of Legion cavalry!

     "To-night the squadron leaves to chase some of McDonald's
     renegades out of Broadalbin. You remember Captain McDonald,
     the Glencoe brawler?--it's the same one, and he's done
     murder, they say, on the folk of Tribes Hill. I am thankful
     that Ruyven is in Sir George Covert's squadron.

     "And, dear, what do you think? Walter Butler was taken, three
     days since, by some of Sir George Covert's riders, while
     visiting his mother and sister at a farm-house near
     Johnstown. He was taken within our lines, it seems, and in
     civilian's clothes; and the next day he was tried by a
     drum-court at Albany and condemned to death as a spy. Is it
     not awful? He has not yet been sentenced. It touches us, too,
     that an Ormond-Butler should die on the gallows. What horrors
     men commit! What horrors! God pity his mother!

       *       *       *       *       *

     "I am writing at a breathless pace, quill flying, sand
     scattered by the handful--for my feverish gossip seems to
     help me to endure.

     "Time, space, distance vanish while I write; and I am with
     you ... until my letter ends.

     "Then, quick! my budget of gossip! I said that we had been
     gay, and that is true, for what with the Legion camping in
     our quarters and General Arnold's men here for two days, and
     Schuyler's and Gates's officers coming and going and always
     remaining to dine, at least, we have danced and picnicked and
     played music and been frightened when McDonald's men came too
     near. And oh, the terrible pall that fell on our company when
     news came of poor Janet McCrea's murder by Indians--you did
     not know her, but I did, and loved her dearly in school--the
     dear little thing! But Burgoyne's Indians murdered her, and a
     fiend called The Wyandot Panther scalped her, they say--all
     that beautiful, silky, long hair! But Burgoyne did not hang
     him, Heaven only knows why, for they said Burgoyne was a
     gentleman and an honorable soldier!

     "Then our company forgot the tragedy, and we danced--think of
     it, dear! How quickly things are forgotten! Then came the
     terrible news from Oriskany! I was nearly dead with fright
     until your letter arrived.... So, God help us I we danced and
     laughed and chattered once more when Arnold's troops came.

     "I did not quite share the admiration of the women for
     General Arnold. He is not finely fibred; not a man who
     appeals to me; though I am very sorry for the slight that the
     Congress has put upon him; and it is easy to see that he is a
     brave and dashing officer, even if a trifle coarse in the
     grain and inclined to be a little showy. What I liked best
     about him was his deep admiration and friendship for our dear
     General Schuyler, which does him honor, and doubly so because
     General Schuyler has few friends in politics, and Arnold was
     perfectly fearless in showing his respect and friendship for
     a man who could do him no favors.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "Dear, a strange and amusing thing has happened. A few score
     of friendly Oneidas and lukewarm Onondagas came here to pay
     their respects to Magdalen Brant, who, they heard, was living
     at our house.

     "Magdalen received them; she is a sweet girl and very good to
     her wild kin; and so father permitted them to camp in the
     empty house in the sugar-bush, and sent them food and tobacco
     and enough rum to please them without starting them
     war-dancing.

     "Now listen. You have heard me tell of the Stonish
     Giants--those legendary men of stone whom the Iroquois,
     Hurons, Algonquins, and Lenape stood in such dread of two
     hundred years ago, and whom our historians believe to have
     been some lost company of Spaniards in armor, strayed
     northward from Cortez's army.

     "Well, then, this is what occurred:

     "They were all at me to put on that armor which hangs in the
     hall--the same suit which belonged to the first Maid-at-Arms,
     and which she is painted in, and which I wore that last
     memorable night--you remember.

     "So, to please them, I dressed in it--helmet and all--and
     came down. Sir George Covert's horse stood at the stockade
     gate, and somebody--I think it was General Arnold--dared me
     to ride it in my armor.

     "Well, ... I did. Then a mad desire for a gallop seized
     me--had not mounted a horse since that last ride with
     you--and I set spurs to the poor beast, who was already
     dancing under the unaccustomed burden, and away we tore.

     "My conscience! what a ride that was! and the clang of my
     armor set the poor horse frantic till I could scarce
     govern him.

     "Then the absurd happened. I wheeled the horse into the
     pasture, meaning to let him tire himself, for he was really
     running away with me; when, all at once, I saw a hundred
     terror-stricken savages rush out of the sugar-house, stand
     staring a second, then take to their legs with most doleful
     cries and hoots and piteous howls.

     "'Oonah! The Stonish Giants have returned! Oonah! Oonah! The
     Giants of Stone!'

     "My vizor was down and locked. I called out to them in
     Delaware, but at the sound of my voice they ran the
     faster--five score frantic barbarians! And, dear, if they
     have stopped running yet I do not know it, for they never
     came back.

     "But the most absurd part of it all is that the Onondagas,
     who are none too friendly with us, though they pretend to be,
     have told the Cayugas that the Stonish Giants have returned
     to earth from Biskoona, which is hell. And I doubt not that
     the dreadful news will spread all through the Six Nations,
     with, perhaps, some astonishing results to us. For scouts
     have already come in, reporting trouble between General
     Burgoyne and his Wyandots, who declare they have had enough
     of the war and did not enlist to fight the Stonish
     Giants--which excuse is doubtless meaningless to him.

     "And other scouts from the northwest say that St. Leger can
     scarce hold the Senecas to the siege of Stanwix because of
     their great loss at Oriskany, which they are inclined to
     attribute to spells cast by their enemies, who enjoy the
     protection of the Stonish Giants.

     "Is it not all mad enough for a child's dream?

     "Ay, life and love are dreams, dear, and a mad world spins
     them out of nothing.... Forgive me ... I have been sewing on
     my wedding-gown again. And it is nigh finished.

     "Good-night. I love you. D."

Blindly I groped for the remaining letter and tore the seal.

     "Sir George has just had news of you from an Oneida who says
     you may be here at any moment! And I, O God I terrified at my
     own mad happiness, fearing myself in that meeting, begged him
     to wed me on the morrow. I was insane, I think, crazed with
     fear, knowing that, were I not forever beyond you, I must
     give myself to you and abide in hell for all eternity!

     "And he was astonished, I think, but kind, as he always is;
     and now the dreadful knowledge has come to me that for me
     there is no refuge, no safety in marriage which I, poor fool,
     fled to for sanctuary lest I do murder on my own soul!

     "What shall I do? What can I do? I have given my word to wed
     him on the morrow. If it be mortal sin to show ingratitude to
     a father and deceive a lover, what would it be to deceive a
     husband and disgrace a father?

     "And I, silly innocent, never dreamed but that temptation
     ceased within the holy bonds of wedlock--though sadness might
     endure forever.

     "And now I know! In the imminent and instant presence of my
     marriage I know that I shall love you none the less, shall
     tempt and be tempted none the less. And, in this resistless,
     eternal love, I may fall, dragging you down with me to our
     endless punishment.

     "It was not the fear of punishment that kept me true to my
     vows before; it was something within me, I don't know what.

     "But, if I were wedded with him, it would be fear of
     punishment alone that could save me--not terror of flames; I
     could endure them with you, but the new knowledge that has
     come to me that my punishment would be the one thing I could
     not endure--eternity without you!

     "Neither in heaven nor in hell may I have you. Is there no
     way, my beloved? Is there no place for us?

       *       *       *       *       *

     "I have been to the porch to tell Sir George that I must
     postpone the wedding. I did not tell him. He was standing
     with Magdalen Brant, and she was crying. I did not know she
     had received bad news. She said the news was bad. Perhaps Sir
     George can help her.

     "I will tell him later that the wedding must be postponed....
     I don't know why, either. I cannot think. I can scarcely see
     to write. Oh, help me once more, my darling! Do not come to
     Varicks'! That is all I desire on earth! For we must never,
     never, see each other again!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Stunned, I reeled to my feet and stumbled out into the moonlight,
staring across the misty wilderness into the east, where, beyond the
forests, somewhere, she lay, perhaps a bride.

A deathly chill struck through and through me. To a free man, with one
shred of pity, honor, unselfish love, that appeal must be answered. And
he were the basest man in all the world who should ignore it and show
his face at Varick Manor--were he free to choose.

But I was not free; I was a military servant, pledged under solemn oath
and before God to obedience--instant, unquestioning, unfaltering
obedience.

And in my trembling hand I held my written orders to report at Varick
Manor.



XX

COCK-CROW

At dawn we left the road and struck the Oneida trail north of the river,
following it swiftly, bearing a little north of east until, towards
noon, we came into the wagon-road which runs over the Mayfield hills and
down through the outlying bush farms of Mayfield and Kingsborough.

Many of the houses were deserted, but not all; here and there smoke
curled from the chimney of some lonely farm; and across the stump
pasture we could see a woman laboring in the sun-scorched fields and a
man, rifle in hand, standing guard on a vantage-point which
overlooked his land.

Fences and gates became more frequent, crossing the rough road every
mile or two, so that we were constantly letting down and replacing
cattle-bars, unpinning rude gates, or climbing over snake fences of
split rails.

Once we came to a cross-roads where the fence had been demolished and a
warning painted on a rough pine board above a wayside watering-trough.

     "WARNING!

     All farmers and townsfolk are hereby requested and ordered to
     remove gates, stiles, cow-bars, and fences, which includes
     all obstructions to the public highway, in order that the
     cavalry may pass without difficulty. Any person found felling
     trees across this road, or otherwise impeding the operations
     of cavalry by building brush, stump, rail, or stone fences
     across this road, will be arrested and tried before a court
     on charge of aiding and giving comfort to the enemy.
     G. COVERT,

     "Captain Commanding Legion."

Either this order did not apply to the cross-road which we now filed
into, or the owners of adjacent lands paid no heed to it; for presently,
a few rods ahead of us, we saw a snake fence barring the road and a man
with a pack on his back in the act of climbing over it.

He was going in the same direction that we were, and seemed to be a
fur-trader laden with packets of peltry.

I said this to Murphy, who laughed and looked at Mount.

"Who carries pelts to Quebec in August?" asked Elerson, grinning.

"There's the skin of a wolverine dangling from his pack," I said, in a
low voice.

Murphy touched Mount's arm, and they halted until the man ahead had
rounded a turn in the road; then they sprang forward, creeping swiftly
to the shelter of the undergrowth at the bend of the road, while Elerson
and I followed at an easy pace.

"What is it?" I asked, as we rejoined them where they were kneeling,
looking after the figure ahead.

"Nothing, sir; we only want to see them pelts, Tim and me."

"Do you know the man?" I demanded.

Murphy gazed musingly at Mount through narrowed eyes. Mount, in a brown
study, stared back.

"Phwere th' divil have I seen him, I dunnoa!" muttered Murphy. "Jack,
'tis wan mush-rat looks like th' next, an' all thrappers has the same
cut to them! Yonder's no thrapper!"

"Nor peddler," added Mount; "the strap of the Delaware baskets never
bowed his legs."

"Thrue, avick! Wisha, lad, 'tis horses he knows better than snow-shoes,
bed-plates, an' thrip-sticks! An' I've seen him, I think!"

"Where?" I asked.

He shook his head, vacantly staring. Moved by the same impulse, we all
started forward; the man was not far ahead, but our moccasins made no
noise in the dust and we closed up swiftly on him and were at his elbow
before he heard us.

Under the heavy sunburn the color faded in his cheeks when he saw us. I
noted it, but that was nothing strange considering the perilous
conditions of the country and the sudden shock of our appearance.

"Good-day, friend," cried Mount, cheerily.

"Good-day, friends," he replied, stammering as though for lack of
breath.

"God save our country, friend," added Elerson, gravely.

"God save our country, friends," repeated the man.

So far, so good. The man, a thick, stocky, heavy-eyed fellow, moistened
his broad lips with his tongue, peered furtively at me, and instantly
dropped his eyes. At the same instant memory stirred within me; a vague
recollection of those heavy, black eyes, of that broad, bow-legged
figure set me pondering.

"Me fri'nd," purred Murphy, persuasively, "is th' Frinch thrappers
balin' August peltry f'r to sell in Canady?"

"I've a few late pelts from the lakes," muttered the man, without
looking up.

"Domned late," cried Murphy, gayly. "Sure they do say, if ye dhraw a
summer mink an' turrn th' pelt inside out like a glove, the winther fur
will sprout inside--wid fashtin' an' prayer."

The man bent his eyes obstinately on the ground; instead of smiling he
had paled.

"Have you the skin of a wampum bird in that bale?" asked Mount,
pleasantly.

Elerson struck the pack with the flat of his hand; the mangy wolverine
pelt crackled.

"Green hides! Green hides!" laughed Mount, sarcastically. "Come, my
friend, we're your customers. Down with your bales and I'll buy."

Murphy had laid a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, halting him short in
his tracks; Elerson, rifle cradled in the hollow of his left arm, poked
his forefinger into the bales, then sniffed at the aperture.

"There are green hides there!" he exclaimed, stepping back. "Jack, slip
that pack off!"

The man started forward, crying out that he had no time to waste, but
Murphy jerked him back by the collar and Elerson seized his right arm.

"Wait!" I said, sharply. "You cannot stop a man like this on the
highway!"

"You don't know us, sir," replied Mount, impudently.

"Come, Colonel Ormond," added Elerson, almost savagely. "You're our
captain no longer. Give way, sir. Answer for your own men, and we'll
answer to Danny Morgan!"

Mount, struggling to unfasten the pack, looked over his huge shoulders
at me.

"Not that we're not fond of you, sir; but we know this old fox now--"

"You lie!" shrieked the man, hurling his full weight at Murphy and
tearing his right arm free from Elerson's grip.

There came a flash, an explosion; through a cloud of smoke I saw the
fellow's right arm stretched straight up in the air, his hand clutching
a smoking pistol, and Elerson holding the arm rigid in a grip of steel.

[Illustration: "INSTANTLY MOUNT TRIPPED THE MAN".]

Instantly Mount tripped the man flat on his face in the dust, and Murphy
jerked his arms behind his back, tying them fast at the wrists with a
cord which Elerson cut from the pack and flung to him.

"Rip up thim bales, Jack!" said Murphy. "Yell find them full o' powther
an' ball an' cutlery, sorr, or I'm a liar!" he added to me. "This limb
o' Lucifer is wan o' Francy McCraw's renegados!--Danny Redstock, sorr,
th' tirror av the Sacandaga!"

Redstock! I had seen him at Broadalbin that evening in May, threatening
the angry settlers with his rifle, when Dorothy and the Brandt-Meester
and I had ridden over with news of smoke in the hills.

Murphy tied the prostrate man's legs, pulled him across the dusty road
to the bushes, and laid him on his back under a great maple-tree.

Mount, knife in hand, ripped up the bales of crackling peltry, and
Elerson delved in among the skins, flinging them right and left in his
impatient search.

"There's no powder here," he exclaimed, rising to his knees on the road
and staring at Mount; "nothing but badly cured beaver and mangy
musk-rat."

"Well, he baled 'em to conceal something!" insisted Mount. "No man packs
in this moth-eaten stuff for love of labor. What's that parcel in
the bottom?"

"Not powder," replied Elerson, tossing it out, where it rebounded,
crackling.

"Squirrel pelts," nodded Mount, as I picked up the packet and looked at
the sealed cords. The parcel was addressed: "General Barry St. Leger, in
camp before Stanwix." I sat down on the grass and began to open it, when
a groan from the prostrate prisoner startled me. He had struggled to a
sitting posture, and was facing me, eyes bulging from their sockets.
Every vestige of color had left his visage.

"For God's sake don't open that!" he gasped--"there is naught there,
sir--"

"Silence!" roared Mount, glaring at him, while Murphy and Elerson,
dropping their armfuls of pelts, came across the road to the bank
where I sat.

"I will not be silent!" screamed the man, rocking to and fro on the
ground. "I did not do that!--I know nothing of what that packet holds! A
Mohawk runner gave it to me--I mean that I found it on the trail--"

The riflemen stared at him in contempt while I cut the strings of the
parcel and unrolled the bolt of heavy miller's cloth.

At first I did not comprehend what all that mass of fluffy hair could
be. A deep gasp from Mount enlightened me, and I dropped the packet in a
revulsion of horror indescribable. For the parcel was fairly bursting
with tightly packed scalps.

In the deathly silence I heard Redstock's hoarse breathing. Mount knelt
down and gently lifted a heavy mass of dark, silky hair.

At last Elerson broke the silence, speaking in a strangely gentle and
monotonous voice.

"I think this hair was Janet McCrea's. I saw her many times at
Half-moon. No maid in Tryon County had hair like hers."

Shuddering, Mount lifted a long braid of dark-brown hair fastened to a
hoop painted blue. And Elerson, in that strange monotone,
continued speaking:

"The hair on this scalp is braided to show that the woman was a mother;
the skin stretched on a blue hoop confirms it.

"The murderer has painted the skin yellow with red dots to represent
tears shed for the dead by her family. There is a death-maul painted
below in black; it shows how she was killed."

He laid the scalp back very carefully. Under the mass of hair a bit of
paper stuck out, and I drew it from the dreadful packet. It was a sealed
letter directed to General St. Leger, and I opened and read the contents
aloud in the midst of a terrible silence.

     "SACANDAGA VLAIE,
     August 17, 1777

     "General Barry St. Leger

     "SIR,--I send you under care of Daniel Redstock the first
     packet of scalps, cured, dried, hooped, and painted; four
     dozen in all, at twenty dollars a dozen, which will be eighty
     dollars. This you will please pay to Daniel Redstock, as I
     need money for tobacco and rum for the men and the Senecas
     who are with me.

     "Return invoice with payment acquitted by the bearer, who
     will know where to find me. Below I have prepared a true
     invoice. Your very humble servant,

     "F. MCCRAW.

"Invoice.

(6) Six scalps of farmers, green hoops to show they were killed
    in their fields; a large white circle for the sun, showing
    it was day; black bullet mark on three; hatchet on two.

(2) Two of settlers, surprised and killed in their houses or barns;
    hoops red; white circle for the sun; a little red foot to show
    they died fighting. Both marked with bullet symbol.

(4) Four of settlers. Two marked by little yellow flames to show
    how they died. (My Senecas have had no prisoners for
    burning since August third.) One a rebel clergyman, his
    band tied to the scalp-hoop, and a little red foot under a red
    cross painted on the skin. (He killed two of my men before
    we got him.) One, a poor scalp, the hair gray and
    thin; the hoop painted brown. (An old man whom we
    found in bed in a rebel house.)

(12) Twelve of militia soldiers; stretched on black hoops four inches
    in diameter, inside skin painted red; a black circle showing
    they were outposts surprised at night; hatchet as usual.

(12) Twelve of women; one unbraided--a very fine scalp (bought
    of a Wyandot from Burgoyne's army), which I paid full
    price for; nine braided, hoops blue, red tear-marks; two
    very gray; black hoops, plain brown color inside; death-maul
    marked in red.

(6) Six of boys' scalps; small green hoops; red tears; symbols
    in black of castete, knife, and bullet.

(5) Five of girls' scalps; small yellow hoops. Marked with the
    Seneca symbol to whom they were delivered before scalping.

(l) One box of birch-bark containing an infant's scalp; very little
    hair, but well dried and cured. (I must ask full price
    for this.)

48 scalps assorted, @ 20 dollars a dozen..............80 dollars.

"Received payment, F. McCRAW."

The ghastly face of the prisoner turned livid, and he shrieked as Mount
caught him by the collar and dragged him to his feet.

"Jack," I said, hoarsely, "the law sends that man before a court."

"Court be damned!" growled Mount, as Elerson uncoiled the pack-rope,
flung one end over a maple limb above, and tied a running noose on the
other end.

Murphy crowded past me to seize the prisoner, but I caught him by the
arm and pushed him aside.

"Men!" I said, angrily; "I don't care whose command you are under. I'm
an officer, and you'll listen to me and obey me with respect. Murphy!"

The Irishman gave me a savage stare.

"By God!" I cried, cocking my rifle, "if one of you dares disobey, I'll
shoot him where he stands! Murphy! Stand aside! Mount, bring that
prisoner here!"

There was a pause; then Murphy touched his cap and stepped back quietly,
nodding to Mount, who shuffled forward, pushing the prisoner and darting
a venomous glance at me.

"Redstock," I said, "where is McCraw?"

A torrent of filthy abuse poured out of the prisoner's writhing mouth.
He cursed us, threatening us with a terrible revenge from McCraw if we
harmed a hair of his head.

Astonished, I saw that he had mistaken my attitude for one of fear. I
strove to question him, but he insolently refused all information. My
men ground their teeth with impatience, and I saw that I could control
them no longer.

So I gave what color I could to the lawless act of justice, partly to
save my waning authority, partly to save them the consequences of
executing a prisoner who might give valuable information to the
authorities in Albany.

I ordered Elerson to hold the prisoner and adjust the noose; Murphy and
Mount to the rope's end. Then I said: "Prisoner, this field-court finds
you guilty of murder and orders your execution. Have you anything to say
before sentence is carried out?"

The wretch did not believe we were in earnest. I nodded to Elerson, who
drew the noose tight; the prisoner's knees gave way, and he screamed;
but Mount and Murphy jerked him up, and the rope strangled the screech
in his throat.

Sickened, I bent my head, striving to count the seconds as he hung
twisting and quivering under the maple limb.

Would he never die? Would those spasms never end?

"Shtep back, sorr, if ye plaze, sorr," said Murphy, gently. "Sure, sorr,
ye're as white as a sheet. Walk away quiet-like; ye're not used to such
things, sorr."

I was not, indeed; I had never seen a man done to death in cold blood.
Yet I fought off the sickening faintness that clutched at my heart; and
at last the dangling thing hung limp and relaxed, turning slowly round
and round in mid-air.

Mount nodded to Murphy and fell to digging with a sharpened stick.
Elerson quietly lighted his pipe and aided him, while Murphy shaved off
a white square of bark on the maple-tree under the slow-turning body,
and I wrote with the juice of an elderberry:

"Daniel Redstock, a child murderer, executed by American Riflemen for
his crimes, under order of George Ormond, Colonel of Rangers, August 19,
1777. Renegades and Outlaws take warning!"

When Mount and Elerson had finished the shallow grave, they laid the
scalps of the murdered in the hole, stamped down the earth, and covered
it with sticks and branches lest a prowling outlaw or Seneca disinter
the remains and reap a ghastly reward for their redemption from General
the Hon. Barry St. Leger, Commander of the British, Hessians, Loyal
Colonials, and Indians, in camp before Fort Stanwix.

As we left that dreadful spot, and before I could interfere to prevent
them, the three riflemen emptied their pieces into the swinging
corpse--a useless, foolish, and savage performance, and I said
so sharply.

They were very docile and contrite and obedient now, explaining that it
was a customary safeguard, as hanged men had been revived more than
once--a flimsy excuse, indeed!

"Very well," I said; "your shots may draw McCraw's whole force down on
us. But doubtless you know much more than your officers--like the
militia at Oriskany."

The reproof struck home; Mount muttered his apology; Murphy offered to
carry my rifle if I was fatigued.

"It was thoughtless, I admit that," said Elerson, looking backward,
uneasily. "But we're close to the patroon's boundary."

"We're within bounds now," said Mount. "Fonda's Bush lies over there to
the southeast, and the Vlaie is yonder below the mountain-notch. This
wagon-track runs into the Fish-House road."

"How far are we from the manor?" I asked.

"About two miles and a half, sir," replied Mount. "Doubtless some of Sir
George Covert's horsemen heard our shots, and we'll meet 'em cantering
out to investigate."

I had not imagined we were as near as that. A painful thrill passed
through me; my heart leaped, beating feverishly in my breast.

Minute after minute dragged as we filed swiftly onward, mechanically
treading in each other's tracks. I strove to consider, to think, to
picture the sad, strange home-coming--to see her as she would stand,
stunned, astounded that I had ignored her appeal to help her by
my absence.

I could not think; my thoughts were chaos; my brain throbbed heavily; I
fixed my hot eyes on the road and strode onward, numbed, seeing,
hearing nothing.

And, of a sudden, a shout rang out ahead; horsemen in line across the
road, rifles on thigh, moved forward towards us; an officer reversed his
sword, drove it whizzing into the scabbard, and spurred forward,
followed by a trooper, helmet flashing in the sun.

"Ormond!" cried the officer, flinging himself from his horse and holding
out both white-gloved hands.

"Sir George, ... I am glad to see you.... I am very--happy," I
stammered, taking his hands.

"Cousin Ormond!" came a timid voice behind me.

I turned; Ruyven, in full uniform of a cornet, flung himself into my
arms.

I could scarce see him for the mist in my eyes; I pressed the boy close
to my breast and kissed him on both cheeks.

Utterly unable to speak, I sat down on a log, holding Sir George's
gloved hand, my arm on Ruyven's laced shoulder. An immense fatigue came
over me; I had not before realized the pace we had kept up for these two
months nor the strain I had been under.

"Singleton!" called out Sir George, "take the men to the barracks; take
my horse, too--I'll walk back. And, Singleton, just have your men take
these fine fellows up behind"--with a gesture towards the riflemen. "And
see that they lack for nothing in quarters!"

Grinning sheepishly, the riflemen climbed up behind the troopers
assigned them; the troop cantered off, and Sir George pointed to
Ruyven's horse, indicating that it was for me when I was rested.

"We heard shots," he said; "I mistrusted it might be a salute from you,
but came ready for anything, you see--Lord! How thin you've
grown, Ormond!"

"I'm cornet, cousin!" burst out Ruyven, hugging me again in his
excitement. "I charged with the squadron when we scattered McDonald's
outlaws! A man let drive at me--"

"Oh, come, come," laughed Sir George, "Colonel Ormond has had more
bullets driven at him than our Legion pouches in their bullet-bags!"

"A man let drive at me!" breathed Ruyven, in rapture. "I was not hit,
cousin! A man let drive at me, and I heard the bullet!"

"Nonsense!" said Sir George, mischievously; "you heard a bumble-bee!"

"He always says that," retorted Ruyven, looking at me. "I know it was a
bullet, for it went zo-o-zip-tsing-g! right past my ear; and Sergeant
West shouted, 'Cut him down, sir!' ... But another trooper did that.
However, I rode like the devil!"

"Which way?" inquired Sir George, in pretended anxiety. And we all
laughed.

"It's good to see you back all safe and sound," said Sir George, warmly.
"Sir Lupus will be delighted and the children half crazed. You should
hear them talk of their hero!"

"Dorothy will be glad, too," said Ruyven. "You'll be in time for the
wedding."

I strove to smile, facing Sir George with an effort. His face, in the
full sunlight, seemed haggard and careworn, and the light had died out
in his eyes.

"For the wedding," he repeated. "We are to be wedded to-morrow. You did
not know that, did you?"

"Yes; I did know it. Dorothy wrote me," I said. A numbed feeling crept
over me; I scarce heard the words I uttered when I wished him happiness.
He held my proffered hand a second, then dropped it listlessly,
thanking me for my good wishes in a low voice.

There was a vague, troubled expression in his eyes, a strange lack of
feeling. The thought came to me like a stab that perhaps he had learned
that the woman he was to wed did not love him.

"Did Dorothy expect me?" I asked, miserably.

"I think not," said Sir George.

"She believed you meant to follow Arnold to Stanwix," broke in Ruyven.
"I should have done it! I regard General Arnold as the most magnificent
soldier of the age!" he added.

"I was ordered to Varick Manor," I said, looking at Sir George.
"Otherwise I might have followed Arnold. As it is I cannot stay for the
wedding; I must report at Stillwater, leaving by nine o'clock in
the morning."

"Lord, Ormond, what a fire-eater you have become!" he said, smiling from
his abstraction. "Are you ready to mount Ruyven's nag and come home to a
good bed and a glass of something neat?"

"Let Ruyven ride," I said; "I need the walk, Sir George."

"Need the walk!" he exclaimed. "Have you not had walks enough?--and your
moccasins and buckskins in rags!"

But I could not endure to ride; a nerve-racking restlessness was on me,
a desire for movement, for utter exhaustion, so that I could no longer
have even strength to think.

Ruyven, protesting, climbed into his dragoon-saddle; Sir George walked
beside him and I with Sir George.

Long, soft August lights lay across the leafy road; the blackberries
were in heavy fruit; scarlet thimble-berries, over-ripe, dropped from
their pithy cones as we brushed the sprays with our sleeves.

Sir George was saying: "No, we have nothing more to fear from
McDonald's gang, but a scout came in, three days since, bringing word of
McCraw's outlaws who have appeared in the west--"

He stopped abruptly, listening to a sound that I also heard; the sudden
drumming of unshod hoofs on the road behind us.

"What the devil--" he began, then cocked his rifle; I threw up mine; a
shrill cock-crow rang out above the noise of tramping horses; a
galloping mass of horsemen burst into view behind us, coming like an
avalanche.

"McCraw!" shouted Sir George. Ruyven fired from his saddle; Sir George's
rifle and mine exploded together; a horse and rider went down with a
crash, but the others came straight on, and the cock-crow rang out
triumphantly above the roar of the rushing horses.

"Ruyven!" I shouted, "ride for your life!"

"I won't!" he cried, furiously; but I seized his bridle, swung his
frightened horse, and struck the animal across the buttocks with clubbed
rifle. Away tore the maddened beast, almost unseating his rider, who
lost both stirrups at the first frantic bound and clung helplessly to
his saddle-pommel while the horse carried him away like the wind.

Then I sprang into the ozier thicket, Sir George at my side, and ran a
little way; but they caught us, even before we reached the timber, and
threw us to the ground, tying us up like basted capons with straps from
their saddles. Maltreated, struck, kicked, mauled, and dragged out to
the road, I looked for instant death; but a lank creature flung me
across his saddle, face downward, and, in a second, the whole band had
mounted, wheeled about, and were galloping westward, ventre a terre.

Almost dead from the saddle-pommel which knocked the breath from my
body, suffocated and strangled with dust, I hung dangling there in a
storm of flying sticks and pebbles. Twice consciousness fled, only to
return with the blood pounding in my ears. A third time my senses left
me, and when they returned I lay in a cleared space in the woods beside
Sir George, the sun shining full in my face, flung on the ground near a
fire, over which a kettle was boiling. And on every side of us moved
McCraw's riders, feeding their horses, smoking, laughing, playing at
cards, or coming up to sniff the camp-kettle and poke the boiling meat
with pointed sticks.

Behind them, squatted in rows, sat two dozen Indians, watching us in
ferocious silence.



XXI

THE CRISIS

For a while I lay there stupefied, limp-limbed, lifeless, closing my
aching eyes under the glittering red rays of the westering sun.

My parched throat throbbed and throbbed; I could scarcely stir, even to
close my swollen hands where they had tied my wrists, although somebody
had cut the cords that bound me.

"Sir George," I said, in a low voice.

"Yes, I am here," he replied, instantly.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, Ormond. Are you?"

"No; very tired; that is all."

I rolled over; my head reeled and I held it in my benumbed hands,
looking at Sir George, who lay on his side, cheek pillowed on his arms.

"This is a miserable end of it all," he said, with calm bitterness. "But
that it involves you, I should not dare blame fortune for the fool I
acted. I have my deserts; but it's cruel for you."

The sickening whirling in my head became unendurable. I lay down, facing
him, eyes closed.

"It was not your fault," I said, dully.

"There is no profit in discussing that," he muttered. "They took us
alive instead of scalping us; while there's life there's hope, ... a
little hope.... But I'd sooner they'd finish me here than rot in their
stinking prison-ships.... Ormond, are you awake?"

"Yes, Sir George."

"If they--if the Indians get us, and--and begin their--you know--"

"Yes; I know."

"If they begin ... that ... insult them, taunt them, sneer at them,
laugh at them!--yes, laugh at them! Do anything to enrage them, so
they'll--they'll finish quickly.... Do you understand?"

"Yes," I muttered; and my voice sounded miles away.

He lay brooding for a while; when I opened my eyes he broke out
fretfully: "How was I to dream that McCraw could be so near!--that he
dared raid us within a mile of the house! Oh, I could die of shame,
Ormond! die of shame!... But I won't die that way; oh no," he added,
with a frightful smile that left his face distorted and white.

He raised himself on one elbow.

"Ormond," he said, staring at vacancy, "what trivial matters a man
thinks of in the shadow of death. I can't consider it; I can't be
reconciled to it; I can't even pray. One absurd idea possesses me--that
Singleton will have the Legion now; and he's a slack drill-master--he
is, indeed!... I've a million things to think of--an idle life to
consider, a misspent career to repent, but the time is too short,
Ormond.... Perhaps all that will come at the instant of--of--"

"Death," I said, wearily.

"Yes, yes; that's it, death. I'm no coward; I'm calm enough--but I'm
stunned. I can't think for the suddenness of it!... And you just home;
and Ruyven there, snuggled close to you as a house-cat--and then that
sound of galloping, like a fly-stung herd of cattle in a pasture!"

"I think Ruyven is safe," I said, closing my eyes.

"Yes, he's safe. Nobody chased him; they'll know at the manor by this
time; they knew long ago.... My men will be out.... Where are
we, Ormond?"

"I don't know," I murmured, drowsily. The months of fatigue, the
unbroken strain, the feverish weeks spent in endless trails, the
constant craving for movement to occupy my thoughts, the sleepless
nights which were the more unendurable because physical exhaustion could
not give me peace or rest, now told on me. I drowsed in the very
presence of death; and the stupor settled heavily, bringing, for the
first time since I left Varick Manor, rest and immunity from despair or
even desire.

I cared for nothing: hope of her was dead; hope of life might die and I
was acquiescent, contented, glad of the end. I had endured too much.

My sleep--or unconsciousness--could not have lasted long; the sun was
not yet level with my eyes when I roused to find Sir George tugging at
my sleeve and a man in a soiled and tarnished scarlet uniform
standing over me.

But that brief respite from the strain had revived me; a bucket of cold
water stood near the fire, and I thrust my burning face into it,
drinking my fill, while the renegade in scarlet bawled at me and fumed
and cursed, demanding my attention to what he was saying.

"You damned impudent rebel!" he yelled; "am I to stand around here
awaiting your pleasure while you swill your skin full?"

I wiped my lips with my torn hands, and got to my feet painfully, a
trifle dizzy for a moment, but perfectly able to stand and to
comprehend.

"I'm asking you," he snarled, "why we can't send a flag to your people
without their firing on it?"

"I don't know what you mean," I said.

"I do," said Sir George, blandly.

"Oh, you do, eh?" growled the renegade, turning on him with a scowl.
"Then tell me why our flag of truce is not respected, if you can."

"Nobody respects a flag from outlaws," said Sir George, coolly.

The fellow's face hardened and his eyes blazed. He started to speak,
then shut his mouth with a snap, turned on his heel, and strode across
the treeless glade to where his noisy riders were saddling up,
tightening girths, buckling straps, and examining the unshod feet of
their horses or smoothing out the burrs from mane and tail. The red sun
glittered on their spurs, rifles, and the flat buckles of their
cross-belts. Their uniform was scarlet and green, but some wore beaded
shirts of scarlet holland, belted in with Mohawk wampum, and some were
partly clothed like Cayuga Indians and painted with Seneca
war-symbols--a grewsome sight.

There were savages moving about the fire--or I took them for savages,
until one half-naked lout, lounging near, taunted me with a Scotch burr
in his throat, and I saw, in his horribly painted face, a pair of
flashing eyes fixed on me. And the eyes were blue.

There was something in that ghastly masquerade so horrible, so
unspeakably revolting, that a shiver of pure fear touched me in every
nerve. Except for the voice and the eyes, he looked the counterpart of
the Senecas moving about near us; his skin, bare to the waist, was
stained a reddish copper hue; his black hair was shaved except for the
knot; war-paint smeared visage and chest, and two crimson quills rose
from behind his left ear, tied to the scalp-lock.

"Let him alone; don't answer him; he's worse than the Indians,"
whispered Sir George.

Among the savages I saw two others with light eyes, and a third I never
should have suspected had not Sir George pointed out his feet, which
were planted on the ground like the feet of a white man when he walked,
and not parallel or toed-in.

But now the loud-voiced riders were climbing into their saddles; the
officer in scarlet, who had cursed and questioned us, came towards us
leading a horse.

"You treacherous whelps!" he said, fiercely; "if a flag can't go to you
safely, we must send one of you with it. By Heaven! you're both fit for
roasting, and it sickens me to send you! But one of you goes and the
other stays. Now fight it out--and be quick!"

An amazed silence followed; then Sir George asked why one of us was to
be liberated and the other kept prisoner.

"Because your sneaking rebel friends fire on the white flag, I tell
you!" cried the fellow, furiously; "and we've got to get a message to
them. You are Captain Sir George Covert, are you not? Very good. Your
rebel friends have taken Captain Walter Butler and mean to hang him. Now
you tell your people that we've got Colonel Ormond and we'll exchange
you both, a colonel and a captain, for Walter Butler. Do you understand?
That's what we value you at; a rebel colonel and a rebel captain for a
single loyal captain."

Sir George turned to me. "There is not the faintest chance of an
exchange," he said, in French.

"Stop that!" threatened the man in scarlet, laying his hand on his
hanger. "Speak English or Delaware, do you hear?"

"Sir George," I said, "you will go, of course. I shall remain and take
the chance of exchange."

"Pardon," he said, coolly; "I remain here and pay the piper for the tune
I danced to. You will relieve me of my obligations by going," he
added, stiffly.

"No," I said; "I tell you I don't care. Can't you understand that a man
may not care?"

"I understand," he replied, staring at me; "and I am that man, Ormond.
Come, get into your saddle. Good-bye. It is all right; it is perfectly
just, and--it doesn't matter."

A shrill voice broke out across the cleared circle. "Billy Bones! Billy
Bones! Hae ye no flints f'r the lads that ride? Losh, mon, we'll no be
ganging north the day, an' ye bide droolin' there wi' the blitherin'
Jacobites!"

"The flints are in McBarron's wagon! Wait, wait, Francy McCraw!" And he
hurried away, bawling for the teamster McBarron.

"Sir George," I said, "take the chance, in Heaven's name, for I shall
not go. Don't dispute; don't stand there! Man, man, don't delay, I tell
you, or they'll change their plan!"

"I won't go," he said, sharply. "Ormond, am I a contemptible poltroon
that I should leave you here to endure the consequences of my own
negligence? Do you think I could accept life at that price?"

"I tell you to go!" I said, harshly. A horrid hope, a terrible and
unworthy temptation, had seized me like a thing from hell. I trembled;
sweat broke out on me, and I set my teeth, striving to think as the
woman I had lost would have had me think. "Quick!" I muttered, "don't
wait, don't delay; don't talk to me, I tell you! Go! Go! Get out of
my sight--"

And all the time, pounding in my brain, the pulse beat out a shameful
thought; and mad temptations swarmed, whispering close to my ringing
ears that his death was my only chance, my only possible
salvation--and hers!

"Go!" I stammered, pushing him towards the horse; "get into your saddle!
Quick, I tell you--I--I can't endure this! I am not made to endure
everything, I tell you! Can't you have a little mercy on me and
leave me?"

"I refuse," he said, sullenly.

"You refuse!" I stammered, beside myself with the torture I could no
longer bear. "Then stand aside! I'll go--I'll go if it costs me--No! No!
I can't; I can't, I tell you; it costs too much!... Damn you, you may
have the woman I love, but you shall leave me her respect!"

"Ormond! Ormond!" he cried, in sorrowful amazement; but I was clean out
of my head now, and I closed with him, dragging him towards the horse.

He shook himself free, glaring at me.

"I am ... your superior ... officer!" I panted, advancing on him; "I
order you to go!"

He looked me narrowly in the eyes. "And I refuse obedience," he said,
hoarsely. "You are out of your mind!"

"Then, by God!" I shrieked, "I'll force you!"

Billy Bones, Francy McCraw, and a Seneca came hastening up. I leaped on
McCraw and dealt him a blow full in his bony face, splitting the lean
cheek open.

They overpowered me before I could repeat the blow; they flung me down,
kicking and pounding me as I lay there, but the death-stroke I awaited
was withheld; the castete of the Seneca was jerked from his fist.

Then they seized Sir George and forced him into his saddle, calling on
four troopers to pilot him within sight of the manor and shoot him if he
attempted to return.

"You tell them that if they refuse to exchange Walter Butler for Ormond,
we've torments for Colonel Ormond that won't kill him under a week!"
roared Billy Bones.

McCraw, stupefied with amazement and rage, stood mopping the blood from
his blotched face, staring at me out of his crazy blue eyes. For a
moment his hand fiddled with his hatchet, then Bones shoved him away,
and he strode off towards his horsemen, who were forming in column
of fours.

"You tell 'em," shouted Bones, "that before we finish him they'll hear
his screams in Albany! If they want Colonel Ormond," he added, his voice
rising to a yell, "tell 'em to send a single man into the sugar-bush.
But if they hang Walter Butler, or if you try to catch us with your
cavalry, we'll take Ormond where we'll have leisure to see what our
Senecas can do with him! Now ride! you damned--"

He struck Sir George's horse with the flat of his hanger; the horse
bounded off, followed by four of McCraw's riders, pistols cocked and
hatchets loosened.

Bruised, dazed, exhausted, I lay there, listening to the receding
thudding of their horses' feet on the moss.

The crisis was over, and I had won--not as I might have chosen to win,
but by a compromise with death for deliverance from temptation.

If it was the compromise of a crazed creature, insane from mental and
physical exhaustion, it was not the compromise of a weak man; I did not
desire death as long as she lived. I dreaded to leave her alone in the
world. But, though she loved him not--and did love me--I could not
accept the future through his sacrifice and live to remember that he had
laid down his life for a friend who desired from him more than he had
renounced.

I was perfectly sane now; a strange calmness came over me; my mind was
clear and composed; my meditations serene. Free at last from hope, from
sorrowful passion, from troubled desire, I lay there thinking, watching
the long, red sun-rays slanting through the woods.

Gratitude to God for a life ended ere I fell from His grace, ere
temptation entangled me beyond deliverance; humble pride in the
honorable traditions that I had received and followed untainted; deep,
reverent thankfulness for the strength vouchsafed me in this supreme
crisis of my life--the strength of a madman, perhaps, but still strength
to be true, the power to renounce--these were the meditations that
brought me rest and a quietude I had never known when death seemed a
long way off and life on earth eternal.

The setting sun crimsoned the pines; the riders were gathered along the
hill-side, bending far out in their saddles to scan the valley below.
McCraw, his white face bound with a bloody rag, drew his straight
claymore and wound the tattered tartan around his wrist, motioning Billy
Bones to ride on.

"March!" he cried, in his shrill voice, laying his claymore level; and
the long files moved off, spurs and scabbards clanking, horses crowding
and trampling in, faster and faster, till a far command set them
trotting, then galloping away into the west, where the kindling sky
reddened the world.

The world!--it would be the same to-morrow without me: that maple-tree
would not have changed a leaf; that tiny, hovering, gauze-winged
creature, drifting through the calm air, would be alive when I was dead.

It was difficult to understand. I repeated it to myself again and again,
but the phrases had no meaning to me.

The sun set; cool, violet lights lay over the earth; a thrush, awakened
by the sweetness of the twilight from his long summer moping, whistled
timidly, tentatively; then the silvery, evanescent notes floated away,
away, in endless, heavenly serenity.

A soft, leather-shod foot nudged me; I sat up, then rose, holding out
my wrists. They tied me loosely; a tall warrior stepped beside me;
others fell in behind with a patter of moccasined feet.

Then came an officer, pistol cocked and held muzzle up. He was the only
white man left.

"Forward," he said, nervously; and we started off through the purple
dusk.

Physical weariness and pain had left me; I moved as in a dream. Nothing
of apprehension or dismay disturbed the strange calm of my soul; even
desire for meditation left me; and a vague content wrapped me, mind
and body.

Distance, time, were meaningless to me now; I could go on forever; I
could lie down forever; nothing mattered; nothing could touch me now.

The moon came up, flooding the woods with a creamy light; then a little
stream, sparkling like molten silver, crossed our misty path; then a
bare hill-side stretched away, pale in the moonlight, vanishing into a
luminous veil of vapor, floating over a hollow where unseen water lay.

We entered a grove of still trees standing wide apart--maple-trees, with
the sap-pegs still in the bark. I sat down on a log; the Indians seated
themselves in a wide circle around me; the renegade officer walked to
the fringe of trees and stood there motionless.

Time passed serenely; I had fallen drowsing, soothed by the silvered
silence; when through a dream I heard a cock-crow.

Around me the Indians rose, all listening. Far away a sound grew in the
night--the dull blows of horses' hoofs on sod; a shot rang faintly, a
distant cry was echoed by a long-drawn yell and a volley.

The renegade officer came running back, calling out, "McCraw has struck
the Legion at the grist-mill!" In the intense silence around me the
noise of the conflict grew, increasing, then became fainter and fainter
until it died out to the westward and all was still.

The Indians came crowding back from the edge of the grove, shoving
through the circle of those who guarded me, pushing, pressing, surging
around me.

"Give him to us!" they muttered, under their breath. "The flag has not
come; they will hang your Walter Butler! Give him to us! The Legion
cavalry is driving your riders into the west! Give him to us! We wish to
see how the Oriskany man can die!"

Dragged, pulled from one to another, I scarcely felt their clutch; I
scarcely felt the furtive blows that fell on me. The officer clung to
me, fighting the savages back with fist and elbow.

"Wait for McCraw!" he panted. "The flag may come yet, you fools! Would
you murder him and lose Walter Butler forever? Wait till McCraw comes, I
tell you!"

"McCraw is riding for his life!" said a chief, fiercely.

"It's a lie!" said the officer; "he is drawing them to ambush!"

"Give the prisoner to us!" cried the savages, closing in. "After all,
what do we care for your Walter Butler!" And again they rushed forward
with a shout.

Twice the officer drove them back with kicks and blows, cursing their
treachery in McCraw's absence; then, as they drew their knives,
clamoring, threatening, gathering for a last rush, into their midst
bounded an unearthly shape--a squat and hideous figure, fluttering with
scarlet rags. Arms akimbo, the thing planted itself before me, mouthing
and slavering in fury.

"The Toad-woman! Catrine Montour! The Toad-witch!" groaned the Senecas,
shrinking back, huddling together as the hag whirled about and
pointed at them.

"I want him! I want him! Give him to me!" yelped the Toad-woman.
"Fools! Do you know where you are? Do you know this grove of
maple-trees?"

The Indians, amazed and cowed, slunk farther back. The hag fixed her
blazing eyes on them and raised her arms.

"Fools! Fools!" she mouthed, "what madness brought you here to this
grove?--to this place where the Stonish Giants have returned, riding out
of Biskoona!"

A groan burst from the Indians; a chief raised his arms, making the
False-Faces' sign.

"Mother," he stammered, "we did not know! We heard that the Stonish
Giants had returned; the Onondagas sent us word, but we did not know
this grove was where they gathered from Biskoona! McCraw sent us here to
await the flag."

"Liar!" hissed the hag.

"It is the truth," muttered the chief, shuddering. "Witness if I speak
the truth, O ensigns of the three clans!"

And a hollow groan burst from the cowering savages. "We witness, mother.
It is the truth!"

"Witch!" cried the officer, in a shaking voice, "what would you do with
my prisoner? You shall not have him, by the living God!"

"Senecas, take him!" howled the hag, pointing at the officer. The fellow
strove to draw his claymore, but staggered and sank to the ground,
covered under a mass of savages. Then, dragged to his feet, they pulled
him back, watching the Toad-woman for a sign.

"To purge this grove! To purge the earth of the Stonish Giants!" she
howled. "For this I ask this prisoner. Give him to me!--to me, priestess
of the six fires! Tiyanoga calls from behind the moon! What Seneca dares
disobey? Give him to me for a sacrifice to Biskoona, that the Stonish
ghosts be laid and the doors of fire be closed forever!"

"Take him! Spare us the dreadful rites, O mother!" answered the chief,
in a quivering voice. "Slay him before us now and let us see the color
of his blood, so that we may depart in peace ere the Stonish Giants ride
forth from Biskoona and leave not one among us!"

"Neah!" cried the hag, furiously. "He dies in secret!"

There was a silence of astonishment. Spite of their superstitious
terror, the Senecas knew that a sacrificial death, to close Biskoona,
could not occur in secret. Suddenly the chief leaped forward and dealt
me a blow with his castete. I fell, but staggered to my feet again.

"Mother!" began the chief, "let him die quickly--"

"Silence!" screamed the hag, supporting me. "I hear, far off, the gates
of Biskoona opening! Hark! Ta-ho-ne-ho-ga-wen! The doors open--the doors
of flame! The Stonish Giants ride forth! O chief, for your sacrilege
you die!"

A horrified silence followed; the chief reeled back, dropping the
death-maul.

Suddenly a horse's iron-shod foot rang out on a stone, close at hand.
Straight through the moonlight, advancing steadily, came a snorting
horse; and, towering in the saddle, a magic shape clad in complete
steel, glittering in the moonlight.

"Oonah!" shrieked the hag, seizing me in both arms.

With an unearthly howl the Senecas fled; the Toad-woman dropped me and
bounded on the dazed renegade; he turned, crying out in horror,
stumbled, and fell headlong down the bushy <DW72>.

Then, as the hag halted, she seemed to grow, straightening up, tall,
broad, superb; towering into a supple shape from which the scarlet rags
fell fluttering around her like painted maple-leaves.

"Magdalen Brant!" I gasped, swaying where I stood, the blood almost
blinding me.

From behind two steel-clad arms seized me and dragged me backward; I
stumbled against the horse; the armored figure bent swiftly, caught me
up, swung me clear into the saddle in front, while the armor creaked and
strained and clashed with the effort.

Then my head was drawn gently back, falling on a steel shoulder; two
arms were thrust under mine, seizing the bridle. The horse wheeled
towards the north, stepping quietly through the moonlight, steadily,
slowly northward, through misty woodlands and ferny glades and deep
fields swimming under the moon, across a stony stream, up through wet
meadows, into a silvery road, and across a bridge which echoed mellow
thunder under the trample of the iron-shod horse.

The stockade gate was shut; an old slave opened it--a trembling black
man, who shot the bolts and tottered beside us, crying and pressing my
hand to his eyes.

Men came from the stables, men ran from the quarters, lanterns
glimmered, windows in the house opened, and I heard a vague clamor
growing around me, fainter now, yet dinning in my ears until a soft,
dense darkness fell, weighing on my lids till they closed.



XXII

THE END OF THE BEGINNING

Day broke with a thundering roll of drums. Instinctively I stumbled out
of bed, dragged on my clothes, and, half awake and half dressed, crept
to the open window. The level morning sun blazed on acres of slanting
rifles passing; a solid column of Continental infantry, drums and fifes
leading, came swinging along the stockade; knapsacks, cross-belts,
gaiters, gray with dust; officers riding ahead with naked swords drawn,
color-bearers carrying the beautiful new standard, stars shining, red
and white stripes stirring lazily in brilliant, silken billows.

The morning air rang with the gusty music of the fifes, the drums beat
steadily in solid cadence to the long, rippling trample of feet.

Within the stockade an incessant clamor filled the air; the grounds
around the house were packed with soldiers, some leading out mules, some
loading batt-horses, some drawing and carrying water, some forming
ranks, shouting their numbers for column of fours.

Sir George Covert's riders of the Legion had halted under my window,
rifles slung, helmets strapped; a trumpeter in embroidered jacket sat
his horse in front, corded trumpet reversed flat on his thigh.

Clearing my eyes with unsteady hand, I peered dizzily at the spectacle
below; my ears rang with the tumult of arrival and departure; and,
through the increasing uproar and the thundering rhythm of the drums,
memories of the past night flashed up, livid as flames in darkness.

The endless columns of Continentals were still pouring by the stockade,
when, above the dinning drums, I heard my door shaking and a voice
calling me by name.

"Ormond! Ormond! Open the door, man!"

With stiff limbs dragging, I made my way to the door and pulled back the
bolt. Sir George Covert, in full uniform, sprang in and caught my
hands in his.

"Ormond! Ormond!" he cried, in deep reproach. "Why did you not tell me
long since that you loved her? You knew she loved you! What blind
violence have you and Dorothy done yourselves and each other--and me,
Ormond!--and yet another very dear to me--with your mad obstinacy and
mistaken chivalry!"

I saw the grave, kind eyes searching mine, I heard his unsteady voice,
but I could not respond. An immense fatigue chained mind and tongue;
intelligence was there, but the tension had relaxed, and I stood dull,
nerveless, my hands limp in his.

"Ormond," he said, gently, "we ride south in a few moments; you will be
leaving for Stillwater in an hour. Gates's left wing is marching on
Balston, and news is in by an Oneida runner that Arnold has swept all
before him; Stanwix is safe; St. Leger routed. Do you understand? Every
man in Tryon County is marching on Burgoyne! You, too, will be on the
way towards headquarters within the hour!"

Trembling from weakness and excitement, I could only look at him in
silence.

"So all is well," he said, gravely, holding my hands tighter. "Do you
understand? All is well, Ormond.... We struck McCraw at Schell's last
night and tore him to atoms. We punished the Senecas dreadfully. We
have cleared the land of the Johnsons, the Butlers, the McDonalds, and
the Mohawks, and now we're concentrating on Burgoyne. Ormond, he is a
doomed man! He can never leave this land save as a prisoner!"

His grip tightened; a smile lighted his careworn face as though a ray of
pure sunshine had struck his eyes.

"Ormond," he said, "I have bred much mischief among us all, yet with the
kindest motives in the world. If honor and modesty forbids an
explanation, at least let me repair what I can. I have given your cousin
Dorothy her freedom; and now, before I go, I ask your friendship. Nay,
give me more--give me joy, Ormond! Man, man, must I speak more plainly
still? Must I name the bravest maid in county Tryon? Must I say that the
woman I love loves me--Magdalen Brant?"

He laughed like a boy in his excitement. "We wed in Albany on Thursday!
Think of it, man! I showed her no mercy, I warrant you, soon as I
was free!"

He  vividly. "Nay, that's ungallant to our Maid-at-Arms," he
stammered. "I'm flustered--you will pardon that. She rides with us to
Albany--I mean Magdalen--we wed at my aunt's house--"

The trumpet of the Legion was sounding persistently; the clatter of
spurred boots filled the hallway; Ruyven burst in, sabre banging, and
flung himself into my arms.

"Good-bye! Good-bye!" he cried. "We are marching with the left wing to
Balston. I'll write you, cousin, when we take Burgoyne--I'll write you
all about it and exactly how I conducted!"

I felt the parting clasp of their hands, but scarcely saw them through
the tears of sheer weakness that filled my eyes. The capacity for deep
emotion was deadened in me; the strain had been too great; the reaction
had left me scarcely capable of realizing the instant portent of events.

The mellow trampling of horses came from below. I hobbled to the window
and looked down where the troopers were riding in fours, falling in
behind a train of artillery which passed jolting and bumping along
the stockade.

A young girl, superbly mounted, came galloping by, and behind her
spurred Sir George Covert and Ruyven. At full speed she turned her head
and looked up at my window, and I think I never saw such radiant
happiness in any woman's face as in Magdalen Brant's when she swept past
with a gesture of adieu and swung her horse out into the road. A
general's escort and staff checked their horses to make way for her. The
officers lifted their black cockaded hats; a slim, boyish officer, in a
white-and-gold uniform, rode forward to receive her, with a low salute
that only a Frenchman could imitate.

So, escorted by prancing, clattering cavalry, and surrounded by a
brilliant staff, Magdalen Brant rode away from Varicks'; and beside her,
alert, upright, transfigured, rode Sir George Covert, whose life she had
accepted only after she had paid her debt to Dorothy by offering her own
life to rescue mine.

Dim-eyed, I stared at the passing troops, the blurred colors of their
uniforms ever changing as the regiments succeeded each other, now brown
and red, now green and red, now gray and yellow, as Massachusetts
infantry, New York line, and Morgan's Rifles poured steadily by in
unbroken columns.

Wrapped in my chamber-robe, head supported on my hand, I sat by the
window, dully content, striving to think, to realize all that had
befallen me. The glitter of the passing rifles, the constantly changing
hues and colors, the movement, the noise, set my head swimming. Yet I
must prepare to leave within the hour, for the stable bells were ringing
for eight o'clock.

Cato scratched at the door and entered, bringing me hot water, and
hovering around me with napkin, salve, and basin, till my battered body
had been bathed, my face shaved, and my bruised head washed where the
Seneca castete had glanced, tearing the skin. Clothed in fresh linen and
a new uniform, sent by Schuyler, I bade him call Sir Lupus; who came
presently, his mouth full of toast, a mug of cooled ale in one hand,
clay pipe in the other.

He laid his pipe on the mantel, set his mug on a chair, and embraced me,
shaking his head in solemn silence; and we sat for a space, considering
one another, while Cato filled my bowl with chocolate and removed the
cover from my smoking porridge-dish.

"They beat all," said Sir Lupus, at length; "don't they, George?"

"Do you mean our troops, sir?" I asked.

"No, sir, I don't. I mean our women."

He struck his fat leg with his palm, drew a long breath, and regarded
me, arms akimbo.

"Mad, sir; all stark, raving mad! Look at those two chits of girls! The
Legion had gone tearing off after you to Schell's with an Oneida scout;
Sir George pops in with his tale of your horrid plight, then pelts off
to find his troopers and do what he could to save you. Gad, George! it
looked bad for you. I--I was half out o' my senses, thinking of you; and
what with the children a-squalling and the household rushing up stairs
and down, and the militia marching to the grist-mill bridge, I did
nothing. What the devil was I to do? Eh?"

"You did quite right, sir," I said, gravely.

He lay back, staring at me, shoving his fat hands into his breeches
pockets.

"If I'd known what that baggage o' mine was bent on, I'd ha' locked her
in the cellar!... George, you won't hold that against me, will you?
She's my own daughter. But the hussy was gone with Magdalen Brant before
I dreamed of it--gone on the maddest moonlight quest that mortal ever
dared conceive!--one in rags cut from a red blanket, t'other in that
rotten old armor that your aunt thought fit to ship from England when
her father stripped the house to cross an ocean and build in the forests
of a new world. George, she's all Ormond, that girl o' mine. A Varick
would never have thought to cut such a caper, I tell you. It isn't in
our line; it isn't in Dutch blood to imagine such things, or do
'em either!"

He seized pipe and mug, swearing under his breath.

"It was the bravest thing I ever knew," I said, huskily.

He dipped his nose into his mug, pulled at his long pipe, and eyed me
askance.

"What the devil's this between you and Dorothy?" he growled.

"Nothing, I trust now, sir," I answered, in a low voice.

"Oh! 'nothing, you trust now, sir!'" he mimicked, striving to turn a
sour face. "Dammy, d' ye know that I meant her for Sir George Covert?"
His broad face softened; he attempted to scowl, and failed utterly.
"Thank God, the land's clear of these bandits of St. Leger, anyhow!" he
snorted. "I'll work my mills and I'll scrape enough to pay my debts. I
suppose I'll have you on my hands when you've finished with Burgoyne."

"No," I said, smiling, "the blow that Arnold struck at Stanwix will be
felt from Maine to the Florida Keys. The blow to be delivered twenty
miles north of us will settle any questions of land confiscation. No,
Sir Lupus, I shall not be on your hands, but ... you may be on mine if
you turn Tory!"

"You impudent rogue!" he cried, struggling to his feet; then, still
clutching pipe and pewter, he embraced me, and choked and chuckled,
laying his fat head on my shoulder. "Be a son to me, George," he
whimpered, sentimentally; "if you won't, you're a damned
ungrateful pup!"

And he took himself off, sniffing, and sucking at his long clay, which
had gone out.

I turned to the window, drawing in deep breaths of sweet, pure morning
air. Troops were still passing in solid column, grim, dirty soldiers in
heavy cowhide knapsacks, leather gaiters, and blue great-coats buttoned
back at the skirts; and I heard the militia at the quarters calling
across the stable-yard that these grimy battalions were some of
Washington's veterans, hurried north from West Point by his Excellency
to stiffen the backbone of Lincoln's militia, who prowled, growling and
snarling, around Burgoyne's right flank.

They were a gaunt, hard-eyed, firm-jawed lot, marching with a peculiar
cadence and swing which set all their muskets and buckles glittering at
one moment, as though a thousand tiny mirrors had been turned to the
light, then turned away. And, pat! pat! patter! patter! pat! went their
single company drums, and their drummers seemed to beat mechanically,
without waste of energy, yet with a dry, rattling precision that I had
never heard save in the old days when the British troops at New Smyrna
or St. Augustine marched out.

"Good--mornin', sorr," came a hearty and somewhat loud voice from below;
and I saw Murphy, Elerson, and Mount, arm in arm, swaggering past with
that saunter that none but a born forest runner may hope to imitate.
They were not sober.

I spoke to them kindly, however, asking them if their wants were fully
supplied; and they acknowledged with enthusiasm that they could desire
nothing better than Sir Lupus's buttery ale.

"Wisha, then, sorr," said Murphy, jerking his thumb towards the sombre
column passing, "thim laads is the laads f'r to twisht th' Dootch
pigtails on thim Hissians at Half-moon. They do be pigtails on th'
Dootch a fut long in the eel-skin. Faith, I saw McCraw's scalp--'twas
wan o' Harrod's men tuk it, not I, sorr!--an' 'twas red an' ratty, wid
nary a lock to lift it, more shame to McCraw!"

Mount stood, balancing now on his heels, now on his toes, inhaling and
expelling his breath like a man who has had more than a morning
draught of cider.

He laid his head on one side, like an enormous bird, and regarded me
with a simper, as though lost in admiration.

"Three cheers for the Colonel," he observed, thickly, and took off his
cap.

"'Ray!" echoed Elerson, regarding the unsteadiness of Mount's legs with
an expression of wonder and pity.

I bade Mount saddle my mare and prepare to accompany me to headquarters.
He saluted amiably; presently they started across the yard for their
quarters, distributing morsels of wisdom and advice among the
militiamen, who stared at them with awe and pointed at their beaded
shot--pouches, which were, alas! adorned with fringes of coarse hair,
dyed scarlet.

But Morgan must worry over that. I had other matters to stir me and set
my pulses beating heavily as I walked to the door, opened it, and looked
out into the hallway.

Children's voices came from the library below; I rested my hand on the
banisters, aiding my stiffened limbs in the descent, and limped down
the stairs.

Cecile spied me first. She was sitting on the porch with a very, very
young ensign of Half-moon militia, watching the passing troops; and she
sprang to her feet and threw her arms about my neck, kissing me again
and again, a proceeding viewed with concern by the very young ensign of
Half-moon militia.

"You darling!" she whispered. "Dorothy's in the library with father and
the children. Lean on me, you poor boy! How you have suffered! And to
think that you loved her all the time! Ah!" she whispered,
sentimentally, pressing my arm, "how rare is constancy! How adorable it
must be to be adored!"

There was a rush of children as we entered, and Cecile cried, "You
little beasts, have you no manners?" But they were clinging to me, limb
and body, and I stood there, caressing them, eyes fixed on my cousin
Dorothy, who had risen from her chair.

She was very pale and quiet, and the hand she left in mine seemed
lifeless as I bent to kiss it. But, upon the bridal finger, I saw the
ghost-ring, a thin, rosy band, and I thrilled from head to foot with
happiness unspeakable.

"Get him a chair, Harry!" said Sir Lupus. "Sit down, George; and what
shall it be, my boy, cold mulled or spiced to cheer you on your journey?
Or, as the Glencoe brawlers have it, 'Wha's f'r poonch?'"

I sank into my chair, saying I desired nothing; and my eyes never left
Dorothy, who sat with golden head bent, folding and refolding the
ruffled corner of her apron, raising her lovely eyes at moments to look
across at me.

The morning had turned raw and chilly; a log-fire crackled on the
hearth, where Benny had set a row of early harvest apples to sizzle and
steam and perfume the air, the while Dorothy heard Harry, Sammy, and
Benny read their morning lessons, so that they might hurry away to
watch the passing army of their pet hero, Gates.

"Come," cried the patroon, "read your lessons and get out, you young
dunces! Now, Sammy!"

Dorothy looked at me and took up her book.

"If Amos gives Joseph sixteen apples, and Joseph gives Amanda two times
one half of one half of the apples, how many will Amanda have?" demanded
Samuel, with labored breath. "And the true answer to that is six."

Dorothy nodded and stole a glance at me.

"That doesn't sound quite right to me," said Sir Lupus, wrinkling his
brows and counting on his fingers. "Is that the answer, Dorothy?"

"I don't know," she murmured, eyes fixed on me.

Sir Lupus glared at Dorothy, then at me. Then he stuffed his pipe full
of tobacco and sat in grim silence while Benny repeated:

"Theven timeth theven ith theventy-theven; theven timeth eight ith
thixty-thix." While Dorothy nodded absently and plaited the edges of her
lace apron, and looked at me under lowered lashes. And Benny lisped on:
"Theven timeth nine ith theventy-thix; theven--"

"Stop that nonsense!" burst out Sir Lupus. "Take 'em away, Cecile! Take
'em out o' my sight!"

The children, only too delighted to escape, rushed forth with whoops and
hoots, demanding to be shown their hero, General Gates. Sir Lupus looked
after them sardonically.

"We're a race o' glory--mongers these days," he said. "Gad, I never
thought to see offspring o' mine chasing the drums! Look at 'em now!
Ruyven hunting about Tryon County for a Hessian to knock him in the
head; Cecile sitting in rapture with every cornet or ensign who'll
notice her; the children yelling for Lafayette and Washington; Dorothy,
here, playing at Donna Quixota, and you starting for Stillwater to
teach that fool, Gates, how to catch Burgoyne. Set an ass to catch an
ass--eh, George?--"

He stopped, his small eyes twinkling with a softer light.

"I suppose you want me to go," he said.

We did not reply.

"Oh, I'm going," he added, fretfully; "I'm no company for a pair o'
heroes, a colonel, and--"

"Touching the colonelcy," I said, "I want to make it plain that I shall
refuse the promotion. I did nothing; the confederacy was split by
Magdalen Brant, not by me; I did nothing at Oriskany; I cannot
understand how General Schuyler should think me deserving of such
promotion. And I am ashamed to take it when such men as Arnold are
passed over, and such men as Schuyler are slighted--"

"Folderol! What the devil's this?" bawled Sir Lupus. "Do you think you
know more than your superior officers--hey? You're a colonel, George.
Let well enough alone, for if you make a donkey of yourself, they'll
make you a major-general!"

With a spasmodic effort he got on his feet, seized glass and pipe, and
waddled out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

In the ringing silence a charred log broke and fell in a shower of
sparks, tincturing the air with the perfume of sweet birch smoke.

[Illustration: "A STRANGE SHYNESS SEEMED TO HOLD US APART".]

I rose from my chair. Dorothy rose, too, trembling. A strange shyness
seemed to hold us apart. She stood there, the forced smile stamped on
her lips, watching me with the fascination of fear; and I steadied
myself on the arm of my chair, looking deep into her eyes, seeking to
recognize in her the child I had known.

The child had gone, and in her place stood this lovely, silent stranger,
with all the mystery of woman-hood in her eyes--that sweet light,
exquisitely prophetic, divinely sad.

"Dorothy," I said, under my breath. "All that is brave and adorable in
you, I love and worship. You have risen so far above me--and I am so
weak and--and broken, and unworthy--"

"I love you," she faltered, her lips scarcely moving. Then the color
surged over brow and throat; she laid her hands on her hot cheeks; I
took her in my arms, holding her imprisoned. At my touch the color faded
from her face, leaving it white as a flower.

"I fear you--maid spiritual, maid militant--Maid-at-Arms!" I stammered.

"And I fear you," she murmured, looking at me. "What lover does the
whole world hold like you? What hero can compare with you? And who am I
that I should take you away from the whole world? Sweetheart, I
am afraid."

"Then fear no more," I whispered, and bent my head. She raised her pale
face; her arms crept up around my neck and tightened, clinging closer as
her closing lips met mine.

There came a tapping at the door, a shuffle of felt-shod feet--

"Mars' Gawge, suh, yo' hoss done saddle', suh."

THE END







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Maid-At-Arms, by Robert W. Chambers

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