“Well?” he asked.

“There were five hundred stand of arms in the City Hall, and I swear that we have taken them all.  A man called Willet led us; a hero, quick of thought, prompt and daring,—­a true soldier.”

“I know him well; a good man.”

“The keys the mayor refused to us,” said Bram.

“Oh, sir, he lied to us!  Vowed he did not have them, and sent us to the armourer in Crown Street.  The armourer vowed that he had given them to the mayor.”

“What then?”

[Illustration:  He swung a great axe]

“Oh, indeed, all fortune fitted us!  We went en masse down Broadway into Wall Street, and so to the City Hall.  Here some one, with too nice a sense of the sabbath, objected to breaking open the doors because of the day.  But with very proper spirit Willet replied, ’If we wait until to-morrow, the king’s men will not wait.  The arms will be removed.  And as for a key, here is one that will open any lock.’  As he said the words, he swung a great axe around his head; and so, with a few blows, he made us an entrance.  Indeed, I think that he is a grand fellow.”

“And you got the arms?”

“Faith, we got all we went for!  The arms were divided among the people.  There was a drum and a fife also found with them, and some one made us very excellent music to step to.  As we returned up Broadway, the congregation were just coming out of Trinity.  Upon my word, I think we frightened them a little.”

“Where were the English soldiers?”

“Indeed, they were shut up in barracks.  Some of their officers were in church, others waiting for orders from the governor or mayor.  ’Tis to be found out where the governor might be; the mayor was frightened beyond everything, and not capable of giving an order.  Had my uncle Gordon been still in command here, he had not been so patient.”

“And for you that would have been a hard case.”

“Upon my word, I would not have fought my old comrades.  I am glad, then, that they are in Quebec.  Our swords will scarce reach so far.”

“And where went you with the arms?”

“To a room in John Street.  There they were stacked, the names of the men enrolled, and a guard placed over them.  Bram is on the night patrol, by his own request.  As for me, I have the honour of assisting New York in her first act of rebellion! and, if the military superstition be a true one, ’A Sunday fight is a lucky fight.’—­And now, mother, we will have some dinner:  ‘The soldier loves his mess.’”

Every one was watching him with admiration.  Never in his uniform had he appeared so like a soldier as he did at that hour in his citizen coat and breeches of wine-coloured velvet, his black silk stockings and gold-buckled shoes.  His spirits were infectious:  Bram had already come into thorough sympathy with him, and grown almost gay in his company; Joris felt his heart beat to the joy and hope in his young comrades.  All alike had recognized that the fight was inevitable, and that it would be well done if it were soon done.