The morning had turned raw and chilly; a log-fire crackled on the hearth, where Benny had set a row of early harvest apples to sizzle and steam and perfume the air, the while Dorothy heard Harry, Sammy, and Benny read their morning lessons, so that they might hurry away to watch the passing army of their pet hero, Gates.

“Come,” cried the patroon, “read your lessons and get out, you young dunces!  Now, Sammy!”

Dorothy looked at me and took up her book.

“If Amos gives Joseph sixteen apples, and Joseph gives Amanda two times one half of one half of the apples, how many will Amanda have?” demanded Samuel, with labored breath.  “And the true answer to that is six.”

Dorothy nodded and stole a glance at me.

“That doesn’t sound quite right to me,” said Sir Lupus, wrinkling his brows and counting on his fingers.  “Is that the answer, Dorothy?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured, eyes fixed on me.

Sir Lupus glared at Dorothy, then at me.  Then he stuffed his pipe full of tobacco and sat in grim silence while Benny repeated: 

“Theven timeth theven ith theventy-theven; theven timeth eight ith thixty-thix.”  While Dorothy nodded absently and plaited the edges of her lace apron, and looked at me under lowered lashes.  And Benny lisped on:  “Theven timeth nine ith theventy-thix; theven—­”

“Stop that nonsense!” burst out Sir Lupus.  “Take ’em away, Cecile!  Take ‘em out o’ my sight!”

The children, only too delighted to escape, rushed forth with whoops and hoots, demanding to be shown their hero, General Gates.  Sir Lupus looked after them sardonically.

“We’re a race o’ glory—­mongers these days,” he said.  “Gad, I never thought to see offspring o’ mine chasing the drums!  Look at ’em now!  Ruyven hunting about Tryon County for a Hessian to knock him in the head; Cecile sitting in rapture with every cornet or ensign who’ll notice her; the children yelling for Lafayette and Washington; Dorothy, here, playing at Donna Quixota, and you starting for Stillwater to teach that fool, Gates, how to catch Burgoyne.  Set an ass to catch an ass—­eh, George?—­”

He stopped, his small eyes twinkling with a softer light.

“I suppose you want me to go,” he said.

We did not reply.

“Oh, I’m going,” he added, fretfully; “I’m no company for a pair o’ heroes, a colonel, and—­”

“Touching the colonelcy,” I said, “I want to make it plain that I shall refuse the promotion.  I did nothing; the confederacy was split by Magdalen Brant, not by me; I did nothing at Oriskany; I cannot understand how General Schuyler should think me deserving of such promotion.  And I am ashamed to take it when such men as Arnold are passed over, and such men as Schuyler are slighted—­”

“Folderol!  What the devil’s this?” bawled Sir Lupus.  “Do you think you know more than your superior officers—­hey?  You’re a colonel, George.  Let well enough alone, for if you make a donkey of yourself, they’ll make you a major-general!”