He stopped again, puffing thoughtfully.

“If we could agree,” he went on.  “Now this would be my view of it:  You let me send a messenger for the ladies.  You would have to take them by force somehow; but, you know, I could make it easy—­arrange the time and place, no house near, no soldiers, no resistence but that of the driver, who should not share our confidence—­no danger.  You take them to the boats and bring them over; but, first—­”

He paused again, looking at the smokerings above his head in a dreamy manner.

“‘First,’” my chief repeated.

“Well,” said he, leaning toward him with a little gesture, “to me the word of a gentleman is sacred.  I know you are both gentlemen.  I ask for your word of honor.”

“To what effect?” the general queried.

“That you will put us safely on British soil within a day after the ladies have arrived,” said he.

“It is irregular and a matter of some difficulty,” said the general.  “Whom would you send with such a message?”

“Well, I should say some Frenchwoman could do it.  There must be one here who is clever enough.”

“I know the very one,” said I, with enthusiasm.  “She is as smart and cunning as they make them.”

“Very well,” said the general; “that is but one step.  Who is to capture them and take the risk of their own heads?”

“D’ri and I could do it alone,” was my confident answer.

“Ah, well,” said his Lordship, as he rose languidly and stood with his back to the fire, “I shall send them where the coast is clear—­my word for that.  Hang me if I fail to protect them.”

“I do not wish to question your honor,” said the general, “or violate in any way this atmosphere of fine courtesy; but, sir, I do not know you.”

“Permit me to introduce myself,” said the Englishman, as he ripped his coat-lining and drew out a folded sheet of purple parchment.

“I am Lord Ronley, fifth Earl of Pickford, and, cousin of his Most Excellent Majesty the King of England; there is the proof.”

He tossed the parchment to the table carelessly, resuming his chair.

“Forgive me,” said he, as the general took it.  “I have little taste for such theatricals.  Necessity is my only excuse.”

“It is enough,” said the other.  “I am glad to know you.  I hope sometime we shall stop fighting each other—­we of the same race and blood.  It is unnatural.”

“Give me your hand,” said the Englishman, with heartier feeling than I had seen him show, as he advanced.  “Amen!  I say to you.”

“Will you write your message?  Here are ink and paper,” said the general.

His Lordship sat down at the table and hurriedly wrote these letters:—­

“PRESCOTT, ONTARIO, November 17, 1813.

“To SIR CHARLES GRAVLEIGH, The Weirs, above Landsmere, Wrentham, Frontenac County, Canada.

“MY DEAR GRAVLEIGH:  Will you see that the baroness and her two wards, the Misses de Lambert, are conveyed by my coach, on the evening of the 18th inst, to that certain point on the shore pike between Amsbury and Lakeside known as Burnt Ridge, there to wait back in the timber for my messenger?  Tell them they are to be returned to their home, and give them my very best wishes.  Lamson will drive, and let the bearer ride with the others.