“Not a landmark missing!” he shouted, “and my signs all witnessed for record by Peter and Cato!  How do the southwest landmarks stand?”

“The tenth pine is blasted by lightning,” said Dorothy, walking her beautiful gray to Sir Lupus’s side.

“Pooh!  We’ve a dozen years to change trees,” said Sir Lupus, in great content.  “All’s well everywhere, save at the Fish-House near the Sacandaga ford, where some impudent rascal says he saw smoke on the hills.  He’s doubtless a liar.  Where’s Sir George?”

Sir George sauntered forth from the doorway where he had been standing, and begged us to dismount, but the patroon declined, saying that we had far to ride ere sundown, and that one of us should go around by Broadalbin.  However, Dorothy and I slipped from our saddles to stretch our legs while a servant brought stirrup-cups and Sir George gathered a spray of late lilac which my cousin fastened to her leather belt.

“Tory lilacs,” said Sir George, slyly; “these bushes came from cuttings of those Sir William planted at Johnson Hall.”

“If Sir William planted them, a rebel may wear them,” replied Dorothy, gayly.

“Ay, it’s that whelp, Sir John, who has marred what the great baronet left as his monument,” growled old Peter Van Horn.

“That’s treason!” snapped the patroon.  “Stop it.  I won’t have politics talked in my presence, no!  Dammy, Peter, hold your tongue, sir!”

Dorothy, wearing the lilac spray, vaulted lightly into her saddle, and I mounted my mare.  Stirrup-cups were filled and passed up to us, and we drained a cooled measure of spiced claret to the master of the pleasure-house, who pledged us gracefully in return, and then stood by Dorothy’s horse, chatting and laughing until, at a sign from Sir Lupus, Cato sounded “Afoot!” on his curly hunting-horn, and the patroon wheeled his big horse out into the road, with a whip-salute to our host.

“Dine with us to-night!” he bawled, without turning his fat head or waiting for a reply, and hammered away in a torrent of dust.  Sir George glanced wistfully at Dorothy.

“There’s a district officer-call gone out,” he said.  “Some of the Palatine officers desire my presence.  I cannot refuse.  So ... it is good-bye for a week.”

“Are you a militia officer?” I asked, curiously.

“Yes,” he said, with a humorous grimace.  “May I say that you also are a candidate?”

Dorothy turned squarely in her saddle and looked me in the eyes.

“At the district’s service, Sir George,” I said, lightly.

“Ha!  That is well done, Ormond!” he exclaimed.  “Nothing yet to inconvenience you, but our Governor Clinton may send you a billet doux from Albany before May ends and June begins—­if this periwigged beau, St. Leger, strolls out to ogle Stanwix—­”

Dorothy turned her horse sharply, saluted Sir George, and galloped away towards her father, who had halted at the cross-roads to wait for us.