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.”