“Who saw such things?” he asked, hoarsely.

“Christian Schell, of Stoner’s scout.”

“Now God curse them if they lift an arm to harm a Tryon County man!” he burst out.  “I’ll not believe it of the British gentlemen who differ with us over taxing tea!  No, dammy if I’ll credit such a monstrous thing as this alliance!”

“Yet, a few nights since, sir, you heard Walter Butler and Sir John threaten to use the Mohawks.”

“And did not heed them!” he said, angrily.  “It is all talk, all threats, and empty warning.  I tell you they dare not for their names’ sakes employ the savages against their own kind—­against friends who think not as they think—­against old neighbors, ay, their own kin!

“Nor dare we.  Look at Schuyler—­a gentleman, if ever there was one on this rotten earth—­standing, belts in hand, before the sachems of the confederacy, not soliciting Cayuga support, not begging Seneca aid, not proposing a foul alliance with the Onondagas; but demanding right manfully that the confederacy remain neutral; nay, more, he repulsed offers of warriors from the Oneidas to scout for him, knowing what that sweet word ‘scout’ implied—­God bless him I ...  I have no love for Schuyler....  He lately called me ‘malt-worm,’ and, if I’m not at fault, he added, ‘skin-flint Dutchman,’ or some such tribute to my thrift.  But he has conducted like a man of honor in this Iroquois matter, and I care not who hears me say it!”

He settled himself in his chair, mumbling in a rumbling voice, and all I could make out was here and there a curse or two distributed impartially ’twixt Tory and rebel and other asses now untethered in the world.

“Well, sir,” I said, “from all I can gather, Burgoyne is marching southward through the lakes, and Clinton is gathering an army in New York to march north and meet Burgoyne, and now comes this Barry St. Leger on the flank, aiming to join the others at Albany after taking Stanwix and Johnstown on the march—­three spears to pierce a common centre, three torches to fire three valleys, and you neutral Tryon men in the centre, calm, undismayed, smoking your pipes and singing songs of peace and good-will for all on earth.”

“And why not, sir!” he snapped.

“Did you ever hear of Juggernaut?”

“I’ve heard the name—­a Frenchman, was he not?  I think he burned Schenectady.”

“No, sir; he is a heathen god.”

“And what the devil, sir, has Tryon County to do with heathen gods!” he bawled.

“You shall see—­when the wheels pass,” I said, gloomily.

He folded his fat hands over his stomach and smoked in obstinate silence.  I, too, was silent; again a faint disgust for this man seized me.  How noble and unselfish now appeared the conduct of those poor tenants of his who had abandoned their little farms to answer Schuyler’s call!—­trudging northward with wives and babes, trusting to God for bread to fall like manna in this wilderness to save the frail lives of their loved ones, while they faced the trained troops of Great Britain, and perhaps the Iroquois.