“‘Sir Lupus,’ says Lady Schuyler, ’had it been only a military necessity I should scarcely have accompanied the General and his guests.’

“‘Madam,’ says I, ’it is commonly reported that I offended the entire aristocracy of Albany when I had Sir John Johnson’s sweetheart to dine with them.  And for that I have been ostracized.  For which ostracism, madam, I care not a brass farthing.  And, madam, were I to dine all Albany to-night, I should not ignore my old neighbors and friends, the Putnams of Tribes Hill, to suit the hypocrisy of a few strangers from Albany.  Right is right, madam, and decency is decency!  And I say now that to honest men Claire Putnam is Sir John’s wife by every law of honor, decency, and chivalry; and I shall so treat her in the face of a rotten world and to the undying shame of that beast, Sir John!’

“Whereupon—­would you believe it, George?—­Schuyler took both my hands in his and said my conduct honored me, and more of the same sort o’ thing, and Lady Schuyler gave me her hand in that sweet, stately fashion; and, dammy!  I saluted her finger-tips.  Heaven knows how I found it possible to bend my waist, but I did, George.  And there’s an end to the whole matter!”

He took snuff, blew his nose violently, snapped his gold snuff-box, and waddled to the window, where, below, in the early dusk, torches and rush-lights burned, illuminating the cavalry horses tethered along their picket-rope, and the trooper on guard, pacing his beat, musket shining in the wavering light.

“That escort will be my undoing,” he muttered.  “Folk will dub me a partisan now.  Dammy! a man under my roof is a guest, be he Tory or rebel.  I do but desire to cultivate my land and pay my debts of honor; and I’ll stick to it till they leave me in peace or hang me to my barn door!”

And he toddled out, muttering and fumbling with his snuff-box, bidding me hasten and not keep them waiting dinner.

I stood before the mirror with its lighted sconces, gazing grimly at my sober face while Cato tied my queue-ribbon and dusted my silken coat-skirts.  Then I fastened the brilliant buckle under my chin, shook out the deep, soft lace at throat and wristband, and took my small-sword from Cato.

“Mars’ George,” murmured the old man, “yo’ look lak yo’ is gwine wed wif mah li’l Miss Dorry.”

I stared at him angrily.  “What put that into your head?” I demanded.

“I dunno, suh; hit dess look dat-a-way to me, suh.”

“You’re a fool,” I said, sharply.

“No, suh, I ain’ no fool, Mars’ George.  I done see de sign!  Yaas, suh, I done see de sign.”

“What sign?”

The old man chuckled, looked slyly at my left hand, then chuckled again.

“Mars’ George, yo’ is wearin’ yo’ weddin’-ring now!”

“A ring!  There is no ring on my hand, you rascal!” I said.

“Yaas, suh; dey sho’ is, Mars’ George,” he insisted, still chuckling.