They parted with a smile and a warm clasp, little guessing how they would meet next.

The journey to Albany was uneventful.  The travellers met with no misadventures, and upon a sunny April evening drew near to the pleasant little town, smiling in the soft sunshine of a remarkably warm evening.

It presented a singularly peaceful appearance.  The fort was on the hill behind, and seemed to stand sentinel for the little township it was there to protect.  The wide grassy road ran down towards the river, its row of quaint Dutch houses broken by a group of finer and more imposing buildings, including the market, the guard house, the town hall, and two churches.

The houses were not built in rows, but each stood in its own garden, possessing its well, its green paddock, and its own overshadowing tree or trees.  They were quaintly built, with timbered fronts, and great projecting porches where the inhabitants gathered at the close of the day, to discuss the news and to gossip over local or provincial affairs.

As the travellers entered the long, wide street, their eyes looked upon a pleasant, homely scene—­the cows straying homeward, making music with their bells, stopping each at her own gate to be milked; the children hanging around, porringer in hand, waiting for the evening meal; matrons and the elder men gathered in groups round the doors and in the porches; young men wrestling or arguing in eager groups; and the girls gathered together chatting and laughing, throwing smiling glances towards their brothers and lovers as they strove for victory in some feat of skill or strength.

It was difficult to believe that so peaceful a scene could exist in a country harassed by war, or that these settlers could carry on their lives in so serene and untroubled a fashion with the dread war cloud hovering in the sky above.

There was one house which stood a little apart from the others, and wore a rather more imposing aspect, although, like all the rest, it was of a quaint and home-like appearance.  It stood a little back from the main streets and its porch was wider and larger, whilst the garden in front was laid out with a taste and care which bespoke both skill and a love for nature’s products.

The travellers were slowly wending their way past this house, debating within themselves where to stop for the night, and just beginning to attract the attention of the inhabitants, when a voice hailed them eagerly from the wide porch.

“Fritz Neville, or I’m a Dutchman myself!  And Pringle and Roche as well!  Why, man, we thought we had left you dead in the forest.  We saw you cut off from us and surrounded.  We never had a hope of seeing you alive again.  This is a happy meeting, in truth!”

Fritz started at the sound of his name, and the next minute had made a quick forward hound, his face shining all over.

It was Lord Howe who had hailed him—­the bold, joyous young Viscount beloved by all who knew him.  The comrades shook hands again and again as they eagerly exchanged greetings.