“Ned, we demand a song!  Come, no refusal, sir!” he exclaimed.  “I shall send Caesar for my Amati and you must sing us something.  Shall it be ‘The Lass with the Delicate Air’?  That is my favorite, I think.  ’Tis, as you know, Mr. Stuart, by the late Dr. Arne, the prince of song-writers.  Here, boy!” he said, turning to one of the small darkies standing about to snuff the candles, “tell Caesar to bring me ‘Pet.’”—­for it was thus he called his violin, which had been saved by Caesar’s devotion and bravery when all else at Elk Hill was destroyed by order of my Lord Cornwallis.  While this was going forward Calvert stood by silent, outwardly calm and unruffled, inwardly much perturbed.  It was his pleasure and habit to sing for Mr. Jefferson or for General and Madame Washington, but it was something of an ordeal to sing before an audience.  That quiet heroism, though, which was part of his character, and which made him accept tranquilly everything, from the most trifling inconvenience to the greatest trials, kept him from raising any objection.

As Mr. Jefferson drew his bow across his violin the company fell away from the centre of the room, leaving a clear space.  Stepping forward he leaned over his beloved Amati and played the opening bars of Dr. Arne’s famous ballad, with its liquid phrases and quaint intervals of melody.  At the first notes of the air Calvert stood beside him and lifted up his fresh young voice of thrilling sweetness.  It was one of those naturally beautiful voices, which at this time and for many years longer had a charm that none could resist, and which helped, among other things, to earn for him the everlasting jealousy of that remarkable and versatile scoundrel, Monsieur le Baron de St. Aulaire.

“I protest, sir,” cried Mr. Gilbert from his place beside Miss Crenshawe, when the bow at last dropped from the quivering strings, “I protest I have not heard such music since St. George and Garat played and sang together in Paris!”

Monsieur de Lafayette laid his hand affectionately on Calvert’s shoulder.  “Ah, Ned,” he said in his English with the strong accent, “that was sweet, but if I mistake me not, thy voice sounded even sweeter to my ears as thou sangst thy songs around the campfires at night after our long marches and counter-marches when we hung upon Cornwallis’s flank or raced toward Petersburg to beat Phillips!  ’Twas a very girl’s voice then, but it could make us forget fatigue and danger and homesickness!”

“I am glad to believe that I was of some service,” said Calvert.  “I have often thought,” he went on, smiling a little, “that had I not been under the protection of General Washington I should never have been permitted to make the campaign.”

But the Marquis would have none of his modesty.

“No, no,” he cried, “thou knowest thou wert my favorite aide and served me faithfully and well.  Dost thou not remember the many messages thou didst carry to General Rochambeau for me when we lay before Yorktown?  And the friends thou hadst in his army?  De Beaufort and d’Azay were among the best, is it not so?  But what is this?” he inquired, suddenly, as he saw the middle of the long room cleared and a very army of slaves approaching bearing an immense table already laid with fine damask and silver.