We breakfasted on soupaan, new milk, johnnycake, and troutlings caught by Colas, who had gone by canoe to the outlet of Hans' Creek by daylight, after I had awakened him. Which showed me how easily one could escape from the Summer House, in spite of guards patrolling the neck and mainland road.

We were four at table; Lady Johnson, Claudia, Penelope, and I; and all seemed to be in better humour, for Claudia's bright eyes were ever roaming toward the Continental camp, where smart officers passed and repassed in the bright sunlight; and Lady Johnson did not conceal her increasing conviction that Sir John had got clean away; which, naturally, pleased the poor child mightily;—and Penelope, who had offered very simply to serve us at table, sat silent and contented by the civil usage she received from Polly Johnson, who told her very sweetly that her place was in a chair and not behind it.

"For," said my lady, "a parson's daughter may serve where her heart directs, but is nowise or otherwise to be unclassed."

"Were I obliged by circumstances to labour for my bread," said Claudia, "would you still entertain honourable though ardent sentiments toward me, Jack?"

Which saucy question I smiled aside, though it irritated me, and oddly, too, because Penelope Grant had heard—though why I should care a farthing for that I myself could not understand.

Lady Johnson laid a hand on Penelope's, who looked up at her with that shy, engaging smile I had already noticed. And,

"Penelope," said she, "if rumour does not lie, and if all our young gallants do truly gather 'round when you take your knitting to the porch of Cayadutta Lodge, then you should make it very plain to all that you are a parson's daughter as well as servant to Douw Fonda."

"How should I conduct, my lady?"

"Firmly, child. And send any light o' love a-packing at the first apropos!"

"Oh, lud!" says Claudia, "would you make a nun of her, Polly? Sure the child must learn——"

"Learn to take care of herself," quoth Polly Johnson tartly. "You have been schooled from childhood, Claudia, and heaven knows you have had opportunities enough to study that beast called man!"

"I love him, too," said Claudia. "Do you, Penelope?"

"Men please me," said the Scotch girl shyly. "I do not think them beasts."

"They bite," snapped Lady Johnson.

"Slap them," said Claudia,—"and that is all there is to it."

"You think any man ever has been tamed and the beast cast out of him, even after marriage?" demanded Lady Johnson. She smiled, but I caught the undertone of bitterness in her gaiety, poor girl!

"Before marriage," said Claudia coolly, "man is exactly as treacherous as he is afterward;—no more so, no less. What about it? You take the creature as he is fashioned by his Maker, or you drive him away and live life like a cloistered nun. What is your choice, Penelope?"

"I have no passion for a cloister," replied the girl, so candidly that all laughed, and she blushed prettily.

"That is best," nodded Claudia; "accept the creature as he is. We're fools if we're bitten before we're married, and fortunate if we're not nipped afterward. Anyway, I love men, and so God bless them, for they can't help being what they are and it's our own fault if they play too roughly and hurt us."

Lady Johnson laughed and laid her hand lightly on my shoulder.

"Dear Jack," said she, "we do not mean you, of course."

"Oho!" cried Claudia, "it's in 'em all and crops out one day. Jack Drogue is no tamer than the next man. Nay, I know the sort—meek as a mouse among petticoats——"

"Claudia!" protested Lady Johnson.

"I hear you, Polly. But when I solemnly swear to you that I have been afraid of this young man——"

"Afraid of what?" said I, smiling at her audacity, but vexed, too.

"Afraid you might undo me, Jack——"

"What!"

"—And then refuse me an honest name——"

"What mad nonsense do you chatter!" exclaimed Lady Johnson, out of countenance, yet laughing at Claudia's effrontery. And Penelope, abashed, laughed a little, too. But Claudia's nonsense madded me, though her speech had been no broader than was fashionable among a gentry so closely in touch with London, where speech, and manners, too, were broader still.

Vexed to be made her silly butt, I sat gazing out of the window, over the great Vlaie, where, in the reeds, tall herons stood as stiff as driven stakes, and the painted wood-ducks, gorgeous as tropic birds, breasted Mayfield Creek, or whirred along the waterways to and fro between the Stacking Ridge and the western bogs, where they nested among trees that sloped low over the water.

Beyond, painted blue mountains ringed the vast wilderness of bog and woods and water; and presently I was interested to see, on the blunt nose of Maxon, a stain of smoke.

I watched it furtively, paying only a civil heed to the women's chatter around me—watched it with sideway glance as I dipped my spoon into the smoking soupaan and crumbled my johnnycake.

At first, on Maxon's nose there was only a slight blue tint of vapour, like a spot of bloom on a blue plum. But now, above the mountain, a thin streak of smoke mounted straight up; and presently I saw that it became jetted, rising in rings for a few moments.

Suddenly it vanished.

Claudia was saying that one must assume all officers of either party to be gentlemen; but Lady Johnson entertained the proposition coldly, and seemed unwilling to invite Continental officers to a dish of tea.

"Not because they are my captors and have driven my husband out of his own home," she said haughtily; "I could overlook that, because it is the fortune of war. But it is said that the Continental officers are a parcel of Yankee shop-keepers, and I have no desire to receive such people on equal footing."

"But," said Claudia, "Jack is a rebel officer, and so is Billy Alexander."

"I think Lord Stirling must be crazy," retorted Lady Johnson. Then she looked at me, bit her lip and laughed, adding:

"You, too, Jack—and every gentleman among you must be mad to flout our King!"

"Mad, indeed—and therefore to be pitied, not punished," says Claudia. "Therefore, let us drink tea with our rebel officers, Polly—out of sheer compassion for their common infirmity."

"We rebels don't drink tea, you know," said I, smiling.

"Oh, la! Wait till we invite your Continentals yonder. For, if Polly and I are to be imprisoned here, I vow I mean to amuse myself with the likeliest of these young men in blue and buff, whom I can see yonder, stalking to and fro along the Johnstown Road. May I not send them a civil invitation, Polly?"

"If you insist. I, however, decline to meet them," pouted Lady Johnson.

"I shall write a little letter to their commanding officer," quoth Claudia. "Do as you like, Polly, but, as for me, I do not desire to perish of dullness with only women to talk to, and only a swamp to gaze upon!"

She sprang to her feet; Lady Johnson and Penelope also rose, as did I.

"Is it true, Jack, that you are under promise to take this young girl to Douw Fonda's house in Caughnawaga?" asked Lady Johnson.

"Yes, madam."

She turned to Penelope: "When do you desire to set out?"

"As soon as may be, my lady."

"I like you. I wish you would remain and share my loneliness."

"I would, my lady, only I feel in honour bound to go to Mr. Fonda."

Claudia passed her arm around the Scottish girl's slim waist.

"Come," she coaxed, "be my companion! Be more friend than servant, more sister than friend. For I, also, begin to love you, with your dark eyes and yellow hair, and your fine hands and sweet, fresh skin, like a child from a bath."

They both laughed, looking at each other with a gaze shy but friendly, like two who seem to think they are, perhaps, destined to love each other.

"I wish I might remain," said the Scottish girl, reluctantly turning toward me.

"Are you for Caughnawaga?" I asked bluntly.

"Yes, sir."

"Very well," said I. "Polly Johnson, may I take your carriage?"

"It is always at your command, Jack. But I am sorry that our little Scottish lass must go."

However, she gave the order to black Colas, who must drive us, also, because, excepting for Colas and poor Flora, and one slave left in Johnstown, all servants, slaves, tenants, and officers of Sir John's household had fled with the treacherous Baronet and were now God knows where in the terrific wilderness and making, without doubt, for the Canadas.

For personal reasons I was glad that the dishonoured man was gone. I should have been ashamed to take him prisoner. But I was deeply troubled on other accounts; for this man had gone northward with hundreds of my old neighbors, for the purpose of forming an army of white men and Indians, with which he promised to return and cut our throats and lay our beautiful countryside in ashes.

We had scarce any force to oppose Sir John; no good forts except Stanwix and a few block-houses; our newly-organized civil government was chaotic; our militia untried, unreliable, poorly armed, and still rotten with toryism.

To defend all this immense Tryon County frontier, including the river as far as Albany, only one regular regiment had been sent to help us; for what remained of the State Line was needed below, where His Excellency was busy massing an army to face the impending thunder-clap from England.

As I stood by the window, looking out across the Vlaie at Maxon Ridge, where I felt very sure that hostile eyes were watching the Sacandaga and this very house, a hand touched my arm, and, turning, I saw Penelope Grant beside me.

"May I have a word alone with you, Mr. Drogue?" she asked in her serious and graver way—a way as winning as her lighter mood, I thought.

So we went out to the veranda and walked a little way among the apple trees, slowly, I waiting to hear what she had for my ear alone.

Beyond, by the well, I saw my Rangers squatting cross-legged on the grass in a little circle, playing at stick-knife. Beyond them a Continental soldier paced his beat in front of the gate which closed the mainland road.

Birds sang, sunshine glimmered on the water, the sky was softly blue.

The girl had paused under a fruit tree. Now, she pulled down an apple branch and set her nose to the blossoms, breathing their fresh scent.

"Well," said I, quietly.

Her level eyes met mine across the flowering branch.

"I am sorry to disturb you," said she.

"How disturb me?"

"By obliging you to take me to Caughnawaga. It inconveniences you."

"I promised to see you safely there, and that is all about it," said I drily.

"Yes, sir. But I ask your pardon for exacting your promise.... And—I ask pardon for—for stealing your horse."

There seemed to ensue a longer silence than I intended, and I realized that I had been looking at her without other thought than of her dark, young eyes under her yellow hair.

"What did you say?" I asked absently.

She hesitated, then: "You do not like me, Mr. Drogue."

"Did I say so?" said I, startled.

"No.... I feel that you do not like me. Is it because I used you without decency when I stole your horse?"

"Perhaps some trifling chagrin remains. But it is now over—because you say you are sorry."

"I am so."

"Then—I am friendly—if you so desire, Penelope Grant."

"Yes, sir, I do desire your countenance."

I smiled at her gravity, and saw, dawning in return, that lovely, child's smile I already knew and waited for.

"I wish to whisper to you," said she, bending the flowering bough lower.

So I inclined my ear across it, and felt her delicate breath against my cheek.

"I wish to make known to you that I am of your party, Mr. Drogue," she whispered.

I nodded approval.

"I wished you to know that I am a friend to liberty," she continued. "My sentiment is very ardent, Mr. Drogue: I burn with desire to serve this land, to which my father's wish has committed me. I am young, strong, not afraid. I can load and shoot a pistol——"

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed, laughing, "do you wish to enlist and go for a soldier?"

"Yes, sir."

I drew back in amazement and looked at her, and she blushed but made me a firm countenance. And so sweetly solemn a face did this maid pull at me that I could not forbear to laugh again.

"But how about Mr. Fonda?" I demanded, "if you don jack-boots and hanger and go for a dragoon?"

"I shall ask his permission to serve my country."

"A-horse, Penelope? Or do you march with fire-lock and knapsack and a well-floured queue?" I had meant to turn it lightly but not to ridicule; but her lip quivered, though she still found courage to sustain my laughing gaze.

"Come," said I, "we Tryon County men have as yet no need to call upon our loyal women to shoulder rifle and fill out our ranks."

"No need of me, sir?"

"Surely, surely, but not yet to such a pass that we strap a bayonet on your thigh. Sew for us. Knit for us——"

"Sir, for three years I have done so, foreseeing this hour. I have knitted many, many score o' stockings; sewed many a shirt against this day that is now arrived. I have them in Mr. Fonda's house, against my country's needs. All, or a part, are at your requisition, Mr. Drogue."

But I remained mute, astonished that this girl had seen so clearly what so few saw at all—that war must one day come between us and our King. This foreseeing of hers amazed me even more than her practical provision for the day of wrath—now breaking red on our horizon—that she had seen so clearly what must happen—a poor refugee—a child.

"Sir," says she, "have you any use for the stockings and shirts among your men?"

She stood resting both arms on the bent bough, her face among the flowers. And I don't know how I thought of it, or remembered that in Scotland there are some who have the gift of clear vision and who see events before they arrive—nay, even foretell and forewarn.

And, looking at her, I asked her if that were true of her. And saw the tint of pink apple bloom stain her face; and her dark eyes grow shy and troubled.

"Is it that way with you?" I repeated. "Do you see more clearly than ordinary folk?"

"Yes, sir—sometimes."

"Not always?"

"No, sir."

"But if you desire to penetrate the future and strive to do so——"

"No, sir, I can not if I try. Visions come unsought—even undesired."

"Is effort useless?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then this strange knowledge of the future comes of itself unbidden?"

"Unbidden—when it comes at all. It is like a flash—then darkness. But the glimpse has convinced me, and I am forewarned."

I pondered this for a space, then:

"Could you tell me anything concerning how this war is to end?"

"I do not know, Mr. Drogue."

I considered. Then, again: "Have you any knowledge of what Fate intends concerning yourself?"

"No, sir."

"Nothing regarding your own future? That is strange."

She shook her head, watching me. And then I laughed lightly:

"Nothing, by any chance, concerning me, Penelope?"

"Yes."

I was so startled that I found no word to question her.

"There is to be a battle," she said in a low voice. "Men will fight in the North. I do not know when. But there will be strange uniforms in the woods—not British red-coats.... And I know you, also, are to be there." Her voice sank to a whisper.... "And there," she breathed, "you shall meet Death ... or Love."

When presently my composure returned to me, and I saw her still regarding me across the apple-bough, I felt inclined to laugh.

"When did this strange knowledge come to you?" I asked, smiling my unbelief.

"The day I first heard your voice at my cousin Bowman's—waking me in my bed—and I came out and saw you in the eye of the rising sun. And you were not alone. And instantly I saw a strange battle that is not yet fought—and I saw you—the way you stood—there—dark and straight in a blinding sheet of yellow light made by cannon!... The world was aflame, and I saw you, tall and dark, shadowed against the blaze—but you did not fall.

"Then I came to my senses, and heard the bell ringing, and asked you what it meant. Do you remember?"

"Yes."

She released the apple-bough and came under it toward me, through a snow of falling blossoms.

"It will surely happen—this battle," she said. "I knew it when I saw you, and that other figure near you, where I sat your stolen horse and heard you shout at me in anger, and turned to look at you—then, also, I caught a glimpse of that other figure near you."

"What other figure?"

"The one which was wrapped in white—like a winding sheet—and veiled.... Like Death.... Or a bride, perhaps."

A slight chill went over me, even in the warmth of the sun. But I laughed and said I knew not which would be the less welcome, having no stomach for Master Death, and even less, perhaps, for Mistress Bride.

"Doubtless," said I, "you saw some ghost of the morning mist afloat from the wet earth where I stood."

She made no answer.

Now, as the carriage still tarried, though I had seen Colas taking out the horses, I asked her indulgence for a few moments, and walked over to the well, where my men still sat at stick-knife. And here I called Nick aside and laid one hand on his shoulder:

"There was Indian smoke on Maxon an hour ago," said I. "Take Johnny Silver and travel the war trail north, but do not cross the creek to the east. I go as armed escort for a traveller to Caughnawaga, and shall return as soon as may be. Learn what you can and meet me here by sunrise tomorrow."

Nick grinned and cast a sidelong glance at Penelope Grant, where she stood in the orchard, watching us.

"Scotched by the Scotch," said he. "Adam fell; and so I knew you'd fall one day, John—in an apple orchard! Lord Harry! but she's a pretty baggage, too! Only take care, John! for she's soft and young and likes to be courted, and there's plenty to oblige her when you're away!"

"Let them oblige her then," said I, vexed, though I knew not why. "She stole my horse and would not surrender him until I pledged my word to give her escort back to Caughnawaga. And that is all my story—if it interests you."

"It does so," said he, his tongue in his cheek. At which I turned away in a temper, and encountered an officer, in militia regimentals of the Caughnawaga Regiment, coming through the orchard toward me.

"Hallo, Jack!" he called out to me, and I saw he was a friend of mine, Major Jelles Fonda, and hastened to offer him his officer's salute.

When he had rendered it, he gave me his honest hand, and we linked arms and walked together toward the house, exchanging gossip concerning how it went with our cause in Johnstown and Caughnawaga. For the Fonda clan was respectable and strong among the landed gentry of Tryon, and it meant much to the cause of liberty that all the Fondas, I think without exception, had stood sturdily for their own people at a time when the vast majority of the influential and well-to-do had stood for their King.

When we drew near the house, Major Fonda perceived Penelope and went at once to her.

She dropped him a curtsey, but he took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks.

"I heard you were here," said he. "We sent old Douw Fonda to Albany for safety, not knowing what is like to come upon us out o' that damned Canada. And, knowing you had gone to your cousin Bowman's, I rode over to my Bush, got news of you through a Mayfield militia man, and trailed you here. And now, my girl, you may take your choice; go to Albany and sit snug with the Patroon until this tempest breaks and blows over, or go to Johnstown Fort with me."

"Does not Douw Fonda need me?" she asked.

"Only your pretty face and sweet presence to amuse him. But, until we are certain that Sir John and Guy Johnson do not mean to return and murder us in our beds, Douw Fonda will not live in Caughnawaga, and so needs no housekeeper."

"Why not remain here with Lady Johnson and Mistress Swift," said I, "until we learn what to expect from Sir John and his friends in Canada? These ladies are alone and in great anxiety and sorrow. And you could be of aid and service and comfort."

What made me say this I do not know. But, somehow, I did not seem to wish this girl to go to Albany, where there were many gay young men and much profligacy.

To sit on Douw Fonda's porch with her knitting was one thing, and the sap-pan gallants had little opportunity to turn the head of this inexperienced girl; but Albany was a very different matter; and this maid, who said that she liked men, alone there with only an aged man to stand between her and idle, fashionable youth, might very easily be led into indiscretions. The mere thought of which caused me so lively a vexation that I was surprised at myself.

And now I perceived the carriage, with horses harnessed, and Colas in a red waistcoat and a red and green cockade on his beaver.

We walked together to the Summer House. Lady Johnson came out on the veranda, and Claudia followed her.

When they saw Major Fonda, they bowed to him very coolly, and he made them both a stately salute, shrugged his epaulettes, and took snuff.

Lady Johnson said to Penelope: "Are you decided on abandoning two lonely women to their own devices, Penelope?"

"Do you really mean to leave me, who could love you very dearly?" demanded Claudia, coming down and taking the girl by both hands.

"If you wish it, I am now at liberty to remain with you till Mr. Fonda sends for me," replied Penelope. "But I have no clothes."

Claudia embraced her with rapture. "Come to my room, darling!" she cried, "and you shall divide with me every stitch I own! And then we shall dress each other's hair! Shall we not? And we shall be very fine to drink a dish of tea with our friends, the enemy, yonder!"

She flung her arm around Penelope. Going, the girl looked around at me. "Thank you for great kindness, my lord," she called back softly.

Lady Johnson said in a cold voice to Major Fonda: "If our misfortunes have not made us contemptible to you, sir, we are at home to receive any enemy officer who, like yourself, Major, chances to be also a gentleman."

"Damnation, Polly!" says he with a short laugh, "don't treat an old beau to such stiff-neck language! You know cursed well I'd go down on both knees and kiss your shoes, though I'd kick the King's shins if I met him!"

He passed his arm through mine; we both bowed very low, then went away together, arm in arm, the Major fuming under his breath.

"Silly baggage," he muttered, "to treat an old friend so high and mighty. Dash it, what's come over these Johnstown gentlemen and ladies. Can't we fight one another politely but they must affect to treat us as dirt beneath their feet, who once were welcome at their tables?"

At the well I called to my men, who got up from the grass and greeted Major Fonda with unmilitary familiarity.

"Major," said I, "we're off to scout the Sacandaga trail and learn what we can. It's cold sniffing, now, on Sir John's heels, but there was Iroquois smoke on old Maxon this morning, and I should like at least to poke the dead ashes of that same fire before moonrise."

"Certainly," said the Major, gravely; and we shook hands.

"Now, Nick," said I briskly.

"Ready," said he; and "Ready!" repeated every man.

So, rifle a-trail, I led the way out into the Fish House road.