“Ay, and here is Tom Faringfield,” said I.

“Well, bless my soul!” exclaimed the pedagogue, grasping the hand that Tom held to him out of the darkness.

“Mr. Cornelius, since that is your name,” put in De Lancey, to whom time was precious.  “Will you please tell us who commands yonder, where we got the reception our folly deserved, awhile ago?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Cornelius. “’Tis no harm, I suppose—­no violation of duty or custom?”

“Not in the least,” said I.

“Why then, sir,” says he, “since yesterday, when we relieved the infantry there—­we are dragoons, sir, though dismounted for this particular service—­a new independent troop, sir—­Winwood’s Horse—­”

“Winwood’s!” cried I.

“Ay, Captain Winwood’s—­Mr. Philip, you know—­’tis he commands our post yonder.”

“Oh, indeed!” said De Lancey, carelessly.  “A relation of mine by marriage.”

But for a time I had nothing to say, thinking how, after these years of separation, Philip and I had come so near meeting in the night, and known it not; and how, but for the turn of things, one of us might have given the other his death-blow unwittingly in the darkness.

CHAPTER IX.

Philip’s Adventures—­Captain Falconer Comes to Town.

Upon the way back to our lines, we were entertained by Mr. Cornelius with an account of Philip’s movements during the past three years.  One piece of information interested Captain De Lancey:  the recent attack upon Van Wrumb’s Hessians, which it had been our purpose that night to revenge, was the work of Winwood’s troop of horse.  Our curiosity upon hearing of Philip as a captain of independent cavalry, who had left us as a lieutenant of New York foot, was satisfied in the course of the pedagogue’s narrative.  The tutor himself had received promotion upon two sides:  first, to the Presbyterian ministry, his admission thereto having occurred while he was with the rebel army near Morristown, New Jersey, the last previous Winter but one; second, to the chaplaincy of Winwood’s troop.

“Sure the devil’s in it,” said I, when he had told me this, “if the rebels’ praying men are as sanguinary as you showed yourself to-night—­leaping out to pursue your beaten enemy, as you did.”

“Why,” he replied, self-reproachfully, in his mildest voice, “I find, do what I can, I have at bottom a combative spirit that will rise upon occasion.  I had thought ’twas long since quelled.  But I fear no man is always and altogether his own master.  I saw even General Washington, at Monmouth—­but no matter for that.  Especially of late, I have found my demon of wrath—­to speak figuratively—­too much for me.  ’Twas too violently roused, maybe, that night your General Grey and his men fell upon us as we slept, yonder across the Hudson, and slaughtered us like sheep in the barn we lay in.”

“Why, were you in that too?” I asked, surprised.  “I thought that troop was called Lady Washington’s Light Horse."[3]