The captain was made to tarry and sup with his Excellency and my grandfather, and I sat perforce a fourth at the table, scarce daring to conjecture as to the outcome of my escapade.  But as luck would have it, the Governor had been that day in such worry and perplexity, and my grandfather also, that my absence had passed unnoticed.  Nor did my good friend the captain utter a word to them of what he knew.  But afterwards he called me to him and set me upon his knee.  How big, and kind, and strong he was, and how I loved his bluff soldier’s face and blunt ways.  And when at last he spoke, his words burnt deep in my memory, so that even now I can repeat them.

“Richard,” he said, “I perceive you are like your father.  I love your spirit greatly, but you have been overrash to-day.  Remember this, lad, that you are a gentleman, the son of the bravest and truest gentleman I have ever known, save one; and he is destined to high things.”  I know now that he spoke of Colonel Washington.  “And that your mother,” here his voice trembled,—­“your mother was a lady, every inch of her, and too good for this world.  Remember, and seek no company, therefore, beyond that circle in which you were born.  Fear not to be kind and generous, as I know you ever will be, but choose not intimates from the tavern.”  Here the captain cleared his throat, and seemed to seek for words.  “I fear there are times coming, my lad,” he went on presently, “when every man must choose his side, and stand arrayed in his own colours.  It is not for me to shape your way of thinking.  Decide in your own mind that which is right, and when you have so decided,”—­he drew his sword, as was his habit when greatly moved, and placed his broad hand upon my head,—­“know then that God is with you, and swerve not from thy course the width of this blade for any man.”

We sat upon a little bench in the Governor’s garden, in front of us the wide Severn merging into the bay, and glowing like molten gold in the setting sun.  And I was thrilled with a strange reverence such as I have sometimes since felt in the presence of heroes.

CHAPTER IV

GRAFTON WOULD HEAL AN OLD BREACH

Doctor Hilliard, my grandfather’s chaplain, was as holy a man as ever wore a gown, but I can remember none of his discourses which moved me as much by half as those simple words Captain Clapsaddle had used.  The worthy doctor, who had baptized both my mother and father, died suddenly at Carvel Hall the spring following, of a cold contracted while visiting a poor man who dwelt across the river.  He would have lacked but three years of fourscore come Whitsuntide.  He was universally loved and respected in that district where he had lived so long and ably, by rich and poor alike, and those of many creeds saw him to his last resting-place.  Mr. Carroll, of Carrollton, who was an ardent Catholic, stood bareheaded beside the grave.