“There is a doctor at Johnstown,” he said; “but Dorothy refuses, saying that she is only tired and requires peace and rest.  I don’t like it, Cousin George.  Never have I seen her ill, nor has any one.  Suppose you look at her, will you?”

“If she will permit me,” I said, slowly.  “Ask her, Ruyven.”

But he returned, shaking his head, and I sat down once more upon the porch to think of her and of all I loved in her; and how I must strive to fashion my life so that I do naught that might shame me should she know.

Now that it was believed that factional bickering between the inhabitants of Tryon County might lead, in the immediate future, to something more serious than town brawls and tavern squabbles; and, more-over, as the Iroquois agitation had already resulted in the withdrawal to Fort Niagara of the main body of the Mohawk nation—­for what ominous purpose it might be easy to guess—­Sir Lupus forbade the children to go a-roaming outside his own boundaries.

Further, he had cautioned his servants and tenants not to rove out of bounds, to avoid public houses like the “Turtle-dove and Olive,” and to refrain from busying themselves about matters in which they had no concern.

Yet that very day, spite of the patroon’s orders, when General Schuyler’s militia-call went out, one-half of his tenantry disappeared overnight, abandoning everything save their live-stock and a rough cart heaped with household furniture; journeying with women and children, goods and chattels, towards the nearest block-house or fort, there to deposit all except powder-horn, flint, and rifle, and join the district regiment now laboring with pick and shovel on the works at Fort Stanwix.

As I sat there on the porch, wretched, restless, debating what course I should take in the presence of this growing disorder which, as I have said, had already invaded our own tenantry, came Sir Lupus a-waddling, pipe in hand, and Cato bearing his huge chair so he might sit in the sun, which was warm on the porch.

“You’ve heard what my tenant rascals have done?” he grunted, settling in his chair and stretching his fat legs.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“What d’ ye think of it?  Eh?  What d’ ye think?”

“I think it is very pitiful and sad to see these poor creatures leaving their little farms to face the British regulars—­and starvation.”

“Face the devil!” he snorted.  “Nobody forces ’em!”

“The greater honor due them,” I retorted.

“Honor!  Fol-de-rol!  Had it been any other patroon but me, he’d turn his manor-house into a court-house, arrest ’em, try ’em, and hang a few for luck!  In the old days, I’ll warrant you, the Cosbys would have stood no such nonsense—­no, nor the Livingstons, nor the Van Cortlandts.  A hundred lashes here and there, a debtor’s jail, a hanging or two, would have made things more cheerful.  But I, curse me if I could ever bring myself to use my simplest prerogatives; I can’t whip a man, no!  I can’t hang a man for anything—­even a sheep-thief has his chance with me—­like that great villain, Billy Bones, who turned renegade and joined Danny Redstock and the McCraw.”