had done its work and dispersed.  The fate of the Revolution rested where it had been from the beginning, with Washington and his soldiers.  Drive them beyond the mountains and there was no other army to fall back upon.  On their existence everything hinged, and when Howe got back to Philadelphia, there they were still existent, still coherent, hovering on his flank, cooping him up in his lines, and leaving him master of little more than the ground his men encamped upon, and the streets his sentinels patrolled.  When Franklin was told in Paris that Howe had taken Philadelphia, his reply was, “Philadelphia has taken Howe.”

But, with the exception of Franklin, contemporary opinion in the month of December, 1777, was very different from that of to-day, and the cabal had been at work ever since the commander-in-chief had stepped between Conway and the exorbitant rank he coveted.  Washington, indeed, was perfectly aware of what was going on.  He was quiet and dignified, impassive and silent, but he knew when men, whether great or small, were plotting against him, and he watched them with the same keenness as he did Howe and the British.

In the midst of his struggle to hold the Delaware forts, and of his efforts to get back his troops from the north, a story came to him that arrested his attention.  Wilkinson, of Gates’s staff, had come to Congress with the news of the surrender.  He had been fifteen days on the road and three days getting his papers in order, and when it was proposed to give him a sword, Roger Sherman suggested that they had better “give the lad a pair of spurs.”  This thrust and some delay seem to have nettled Wilkinson, who was swelling with importance, and although he was finally made a brigadier-general, he rode off to the north much ruffled.  In later years Wilkinson was secretive enough; but in his hot youth he could not hold his tongue, and on his way back to Gates he talked.  What he said was marked and carried to headquarters, and on November 9 Washington wrote to Conway:—­

“A letter which I received last night contained the following paragraph,—­’In a letter from General Conway to General Gates he says, “Heaven has determined to save your country, or a weak general and bad counsellors would have ruined it” I am, sir, your humble servant,’” etc.

This curt note fell upon Conway with stunning effect.  It is said that he tried to apologize, and he certainly resigned.  As for Gates, he fell to writing letters filled with expressions of wonder as to who had betrayed him, and writhed most pitiably under the exposure.  Washington’s replies are models of cold dignity, and the calm indifference with which he treated the whole matter, while holding Gates to the point with relentless grasp, is very interesting.  The cabal was seriously shaken by this sudden blow.  It must have dawned upon them dimly that they might have mistaken their man, and that the silent soldier was perhaps