“Let it rest so, Captain Butler,” I said, soberly.  “I will say this:  when I rose I had not meant to say all that I said.  But I believe it to be the truth, though I chose the wrong moment to express it.  If I change this belief I will say so.”

And so the outburst of passion sank to ashes; and if the fire was not wholly extinguished, it at least lay covered, like the heart of a Seminole council-fire after the sachems have risen and departed with covered heads.

Drinking began again.  The ladies gathered in a group, whispering and laughing their relief at the turn affairs were taking—­all save Dorothy, who sat serenely beside me, picking the kernels from walnut-shells and sipping a glass of port.

Sir John Johnson found a coal in the embers on the hearth, and, leaning half over the table, began to draw on the table-cloth a rude map of Tryon County.

“All know,” he said, “that the province of New York is the key to the rebel strength.  While they hold West Point and Albany and Stanwix, they hold Tryon County by the throat.  Let them occupy Philadelphia.  Who cares?  We can take it when we choose.  Let them hold their dirty Boston; let the rebel Washington sneak around the Jerseys.  Who cares?  There’ll be the finer hunting for us later.  Gentlemen, as you know, the invasion of New York is at hand—­has already begun.  And that’s no secret from the rebels, either; they may turn and twist and double here in New York province, but they can’t escape the trap, though they saw it long ago.”

He raised his head and glanced at me.

“Here is a triangle,” he said; “that triangle is New York province.  Here is Albany, the objective of our three armies, the gate of Tryon County, the plague-spot we are to cleanse, and the military centre.  Now mark!  Burgoyne moves through the lakes, south, reducing Ticonderoga and Edward, routing the rats out of Saratoga, and approaches Albany—­so.  Clinton moves north along the Hudson to meet him—­so—­forcing the Highlands at Peekskill, taking West Point or leaving it for later punishment.  Nothing can stop him; he meets Burgoyne here, at Albany.”

Again he looked at me.  “You see, sir, that from two angles of the triangle converging armies depart towards a common objective.”

“I see,” I said.

“Now,” he resumed, “the third force, under Colonel Barry St. Leger—­to which my regiment and the regiment of Colonel Butler have the honor to be attached—­embarks from Canada, sails up the St. Lawrence, disembarks at Oswego, on Lake Erie, marches straight on Stanwix, reduces it, and joins the armies of Clinton and Burgoyne at Albany.”

He stood up, casting his bit of wood-coal on the cloth before him.

“That, sir,” he said to me, “is the plan of campaign, which the rebels know and cannot prevent.  That means the invasion of New York, the scouring out of every plague-spot, the capture and destruction of every rebel between Albany and the Jerseys.”