Willoughby was in the pride of manhood.  He had served with distinction, and his countenance and frame both showed it, though neither had suffered more than was necessary to give him a high military air, and a look of robust vigour.  As for Maud, with her graceful form fully developed by her riding-habit, her soft lineaments and polished expression, no one would have thought her more than thirty, which was ten years less than her real age.  With Mike and Nick it was very different.  Both had grown old, not only in fact, but in appearance.  The Irishman was turned of sixty, and his hard, coarse-featured face, burnt as red as the sun in a fog, by exposure and Santa Cruz, was getting to be wrinkled and a little emaciated.  Still, his frame was robust and powerful.  His attire was none of the best, and it was to be seen at a glance that it was more than half military.  In point of fact, the poor fellow had been refused a reinlistment in the army, on account of his infirmities and years, and America was not then a country to provide retreats for her veterans.  Still, Mike had an ample pension for wounds, and could not be said to be in want.  He had suffered in the same battle with Joyce, in whose company he had actually been corporal O’Hearn, though his gallant commander had not risen to fight again, as had been the case with the subordinate.

Wyandotte exhibited still greater changes.  He had seen his threescore and ten years; and was fast falling into the “sere and yellow leaf.”  His hair was getting grey, and his frame, though still active and sinewy, would have yielded under the extraordinary marches he had once made.  In dress, there was nothing to remark; his ordinary Indian attire being in as good condition as was usual for the man.  Willoughby thought, however, that his eye was less wild than when he knew him before; and every symptom of intemperance had vanished, not only from his countenance, but his person.

From the moment Willoughby appeared, a marked change came over the countenance of Nick.  His dark eye, which still retained much of its brightness, turned in the direction of the neighbouring chapel, and he seemed relieved when a rustling in the bushes announced a footstep.  There had not been another word spoken when the lilacs were shoved aside, and Mr. Woods, a vigorous little man, in a green old age, entered the area.  Willoughby had not seen the chaplain since they parted at Albany, and the greetings were as warm as they were unexpected.

“I have lived a sort of hermit’s life, my dear Bob, since the death of your blessed parents,” said the divine, clearing his eyes of tears; “now and then cheered by a precious letter from yourself and Maud—­I call you both by the names I gave you both in baptism—­and it was, ’I, Maud, take thee, Robert,’ when you stood before the altar in that little edifice—­you will pardon me if I am too familiar with a general officer and his lady”

“Familiar!” exclaimed both in a breath;—­and Maud’s soft, white hand was extended towards the chaplain, with reproachful earnestness;—­“We, who were made Christians by you, and who have so much reason to remember and love you always!”