“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.”