But I only shook my head impatiently and walked out.  Down the hallway I halted in the light of the sconces and looked at the strange mark on my finger.  It was plainly visible.  “A tight glove,” I muttered, and walked on towards the stairs.

From the floor below came a breezy buzz of voices, laughter, the snap of ivory fans spreading, the whisk and rustle of petticoats.  I leaned a moment over the rail which circled the stair-gallery and looked down.

Unaccustomed cleanliness and wax and candle-light made a pretty background for all this powdered and silken company swarming below.  The servants and children had gathered ground-pine to festoon the walls; stair-rail, bronze cannon, pictures, trophies, and windows were all bright with the aromatic green foliage; enormous bunches of peonies perfumed the house, and everywhere masses of yellow and white elder-bloom and swamp-marigold brightened the corners.

Sir Lupus, standing in the hallway with a tall gentleman who wore the epaulets and the buff-and-blue uniform of a major-general, beckoned me, and I descended the stairs to make the acquaintance of that noblest and most generous of soldiers, Philip Schuyler.  He held my hand a moment, scrutinizing me with kindly eyes, and, turning to Sir Lupus, said, “There are few men to whom my heart surrenders at sight, but your young kinsman is one of the few, Sir Lupus.”

“He’s a good boy, General, a brave lad,” mumbled Sir Lupus, frowning to hide his pride.  “A bit quick at conclusions, perhaps—­eh, George?”

“Too quick, sir,” I said, coloring.

“A fault you have already repaired by confession,” said the General, with his kindly smile.  “Mr. Ormond, I had the pleasure of receiving Sir George Covert the day he left for Stanwix, and Sir George mentioned your desire for a commission.”

“I do desire it, sir,” I said, quickly.

“Have you served, Mr. Ormond?” he asked, gravely.

“I have seen some trifling service against the Florida savages, sir.”

“As officer, of course.”

“As officer of our rangers, General.”

“You were never wounded?”

“No, sir; ... not severely.”

“Oh!... not severely.”

“No, sir.”

“There are some gentlemen of my acquaintance,” said Schuyler, turning to Sir Lupus, “who might take a lesson in modesty from Mr. Ormond.”

“Yes,” broke out Sir Lupus—­“that pompous ass, Gates.”

“General Gates is a loyal soldier,” said Schuyler, gravely.

“Who the devil cares?” fumed Sir Lupus.  “I call a spade a spade!  And I say he is at the head of that infamous cabal which seeks to disgrace you.  Don’t tell me, sir!  I’m an older man than you, sir!  I’ve a right to say it, and I do.  Gates is an envious ass, and unfit to hold your stirrup!”

“This is a painful matter,” said Schuyler, in a low voice.  “Indiscreet friendship may make it worse.  I regard General Gates as a patriot and a brother soldier....  Pray let us choose a gayer topic ... friends.”