“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?”