“Come, come, my lass,” said I, with all the patience I could still command, “there is a storm approaching, and I do not wish to get wet.  Answer my civil question and I’ll thank you and be off about my business.  Where is this Sagamore to be found?”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“Because I desire to consult him concerning certain matters.”

“What matters?”

“Matters which do not concern you!” I snapped out.

“Are you sure of that, pretty boy?”

“Am I sure?” I repeated, furious.  “What do you mean?  Will you answer an honest question or not?”

“Why do you desire to see this Sagamore?” she repeated so obstinately that I fairly clenched my teeth.

“Answer me,” I said.  “Or had you rather I fetched a file of men up here?”

“Fetch a regiment, and I shall tell you nothing unless I choose.”

“Good God, what folly!” I exclaimed.  “For whom and for what do you take me, then, that you refuse to answer the polite and harmless question of an American officer!”

“You had not so named yourself.”

“Very well, then; I am Euan Loskiel, Ensign in Morgan’s rifle regiment!”

“You say so.”

“Do you doubt it?”

“Birds sing,” she said.  Suddenly she stepped from the dark doorway, came to where I stood, bent forward and looked me very earnestly in the eyes—­ so closely that something—­ her nearness—­ I know not what—­ seemed to stop my heart and breath for a second.

Then, far on the western hills lightning glimmered; and after a long while it thundered.

“Do you wish me to find this Sagamore for you?” she asked very quietly.

“Will you do so?”

A drop of rain fell; another, which struck her just where the cheek curved under the long black lashes, fringing them with brilliancy like tears.

“Where do you lodge?” she asked, after a silent scrutiny of me.

“This night I am a guest at Major Lockwood’s.  Tomorrow I travel north again with my comrade, Lieutenant Boyd.”

She was looking steadily at me all the time; finally she said: 

“Somehow, I believe you to be a friend to liberty.  I know it—­ somehow.”

“It is very likely, in this rifle dress I wear,” said I smiling.

“Yet a man may dress as he pleases.”

“You mistrust me for a spy?”

“If you are, why, you are but one more among many hereabouts.  I think you have not been in Westchester very long.  It does not matter.  No boy with the face you wear was born to betray anything more important than a woman.”

I turned hot and scarlet with chagrin at her cool presumption—­ and would not for worlds have had her see how the impudence stung and shamed me.

For a full minute she stood there watching me; then: 

“I ask pardon,” she said very gravely.

And somehow, when she said it I seemed to experience a sense of inferiority—­ which was absurd and monstrous, considering what she doubtless was.