I turned sharply; the candle-light dazzled me.  As I passed Cato, the old man bowed till his coat-cuffs hung covering his dusky, wrinkled fingers.

“When we go, we go together, Cato,” I said, huskily, and so passed on through the brightly lighted hallway and down the stairs.

Candle-light glimmered on the dark pictures, the rusted circles of arms, the stags’ heads with their dusty eyes.  A servant in yellow livery, lounging by the door, rose from the settle as I appeared and threw open the door on the left, announcing, “Cap’m Ormond!” in a slovenly fashion which merited a rebuke from somebody.

The room into which the yokel ushered me appeared to be a library, low of ceiling, misty with sour pipe smoke, which curled and floated level, wavering as the door closed behind me.

Through the fog, which nigh choked me with its staleness, I perceived a bulky gentleman seated at ease, sucking a long clay pipe, his bulging legs cocked up on a card-table, his little, inflamed eyes twinkling red in the candle-light.

[Illustration:  “You’re my cousin, George Ormond, or I’m the fattest liar south of Montreal!".]

“Captain Ormond?” he cried.  “Captain be damned; you’re my cousin, George Ormond, or I’m the fattest liar south of Montreal!  Who the devil put ’em up to captaining you—­eh?  Was it that minx Dorothy?  Dammy, I took it that the old Colonel had come to plague me from his grave—­your father, sir!  And a cursed fine fellow, if he was second cousin to a Varick, which he could not help, not he!—­though I’ve heard him damn his luck to my very face, sir!  Yes, sir, under my very nose!”

He fell into a fit of fat coughing, and seized a glass of spirits-and-water which stood on the table near his feet.  The draught allayed his spasm; he wiped his broad, purple face, chuckled, tossed off the last of the liquor with a smack, and held out a mottled, fat hand, bare of wrist-lace.  “Here’s my heart with it, George!” he cried.  “I’d stand up to greet you, but it takes ten minutes for me to find these feet o’ mine, so I’ll not keep you waiting.  There’s a chair; fill it with that pretty body of yours; cock up your feet—­here’s a pipe—­here’s snuff—­here’s the best rum north o’ Norfolk, which that ass Dunmore laid in ashes to spite those who kicked him out!”

He squeezed my hand affectionately.  “Pretty bird!  Dammy, but you’ll break a heart or two, you rogue!  Oh, you are your father all over again; it’s that way with you Ormonds—­all alike, and handsome as that young devil Lucifer; too proud to be proud o’ your dukes and admirals, and a thousand years of waiting on your King.  As lads together your father used to take me by the ear and cuff me, crying, ’Beast! beast!  You eat and drink too much!  An Ormond’s heart lies not in his belly!’ And I kicked back, fighting stoutly for the crust he dragged me from.  Dammy, why not?  There’s more Dutch Varick than Irish Ormond in me.  Remember that, George, and we shall get on famously together, you and I. Forget it, and we quarrel.  Hey! fill that tall Italian glass for a toast.  I give you the family, George.  May they keep tight hold on what is theirs through all this cursed war-folly.  Here’s to the patroons, God bless ’em!”