He seized pipe and mug, swearing under his breath.

“It was the bravest thing I ever knew,” I said, huskily.

He dipped his nose into his mug, pulled at his long pipe, and eyed me askance.

“What the devil’s this between you and Dorothy?” he growled.

“Nothing, I trust now, sir,” I answered, in a low voice.

“Oh! ‘nothing, you trust now, sir!’” he mimicked, striving to turn a sour face.  “Dammy, d’ ye know that I meant her for Sir George Covert?” His broad face softened; he attempted to scowl, and failed utterly.  “Thank God, the land’s clear of these bandits of St. Leger, anyhow!” he snorted.  “I’ll work my mills and I’ll scrape enough to pay my debts.  I suppose I’ll have you on my hands when you’ve finished with Burgoyne.”

“No,” I said, smiling, “the blow that Arnold struck at Stanwix will be felt from Maine to the Florida Keys.  The blow to be delivered twenty miles north of us will settle any questions of land confiscation.  No, Sir Lupus, I shall not be on your hands, but ... you may be on mine if you turn Tory!”

“You impudent rogue!” he cried, struggling to his feet; then, still clutching pipe and pewter, he embraced me, and choked and chuckled, laying his fat head on my shoulder.  “Be a son to me, George,” he whimpered, sentimentally; “if you won’t, you’re a damned ungrateful pup!”

And he took himself off, sniffing, and sucking at his long clay, which had gone out.

I turned to the window, drawing in deep breaths of sweet, pure morning air.  Troops were still passing in solid column, grim, dirty soldiers in heavy cowhide knapsacks, leather gaiters, and blue great-coats buttoned back at the skirts; and I heard the militia at the quarters calling across the stable-yard that these grimy battalions were some of Washington’s veterans, hurried north from West Point by his Excellency to stiffen the backbone of Lincoln’s militia, who prowled, growling and snarling, around Burgoyne’s right flank.

They were a gaunt, hard-eyed, firm-jawed lot, marching with a peculiar cadence and swing which set all their muskets and buckles glittering at one moment, as though a thousand tiny mirrors had been turned to the light, then turned away.  And, pat! pat! patter! patter! pat! went their single company drums, and their drummers seemed to beat mechanically, without waste of energy, yet with a dry, rattling precision that I had never heard save in the old days when the British troops at New Smyrna or St. Augustine marched out.

“Good—­mornin’, sorr,” came a hearty and somewhat loud voice from below; and I saw Murphy, Elerson, and Mount, arm in arm, swaggering past with that saunter that none but a born forest runner may hope to imitate.  They were not sober.

I spoke to them kindly, however, asking them if their wants were fully supplied; and they acknowledged with enthusiasm that they could desire nothing better than Sir Lupus’s buttery ale.