A laugh uproarious from the three soldiers greeted his petulant outburst; after which the baronet enlightened the others.

“As you know, Captain John, Appleby Hundred once belonged to the rebel Roger Ireton, and Mr. Stair here holds but a confiscator’s title.  ’Tis likely the son heard of the war and thought he stood some chance to come into his own again.”

“Oh, aye; sure enough,” quoth the elder officer, tilting his bottle afresh.  And then:  “Of course he promptly ’listed with the rebels when he came?  Trust Roger Ireton’s son for that.”

My baronet wagged his head assentingly to this; then clinched the lie in words.

“Of course; we have his commission.  He is on De Kalb’s staff, ’detached for special duty.’”

“A spy!” roared the jester.  “And yet you haven’t hanged him?”

Sir Francis shrugged like any Frenchman.  “All in good time, my dear Captain.  There were reasons why I did not care to knot the rope myself.  Besides, we had a little disagreement years agone across the water; ’twas about a woman—­oh, she was no mistress of his, I do assure you!”—­this to quench my jester’s laugh incredulous.  “He was keen upon me for satisfaction in this old quarrel, and I gave it him, thinking he’d hang the easier for a little blooding first.”

Here the factor-lawyer cut in anxiously.  “But you will hang him, Sir Francis?  You’ve promised that, you know.”

I did not hate my enemy the more because he turned a shoulder to this little bloodhound and quite ignored the interruption.

“So we fought it out one morning in Mr. Stair’s wood-field, and he had what he came for.  Not to give him a chance to escape, we brought him here, and as soon as he is fit to ride I’ll send him to the colonel.  Tarleton will give him a short shrift, I promise you, and then”—­this to the master of Appleby Hundred—­“then your title will be well quieted, Mr. Stair.”

At this the weather-beaten captain roared again and smote the table till the bottles reeled.

“I say, Sir Frank, that’s good—­damned good!  So you have him crimped here in his own house, stuffing him like a penned capon before you wring his neck.  Ah! ha! ha!  But ’tis to be hoped you have his legs well tied.  If he be any son of my old mad-bull Roger Ireton, you’ll hardly hang him peacefully like a trussed fowl before the fire.”

The baronet smiled and said:  “I’ll be your warrant for his safety!  We’ve had him well guarded from the first, and to-night he is behind a barred door with Mr. Stair’s overseer standing sentry before it.  But as for that, he’s barely out of bed from my pin-prick.”

Having thus disposed of me, they let me be and came to the graver business of the moment, with a toast to lay the dust before it.  It was Falconnet who gave the toast.

“Here’s to our bully redskins and their king—­How do you call him, Captain Stuart?  Ocon—­Ocona—­”

“Oconostota is the Chelakee of it, though on the border they know him better as ‘Old Hop.’  Fill up, gentlemen, fill up; ’tis a dry business, this.  Allow me, Mr. Stair; and you, Mr.—­er—­ah—­Pengarden.  This same old heathen is the king’s friend now, but, gentlemen all, I do assure you he’s the very devil himself in a copper-colored skin.  ’Twas he who ambushed us in ’60, and but for Attakullakulla—­”