Now, whether it was the wetting I got on Mayfield Creek and the chill I took on the long night's journey to Johnstown, or if my thigh-wound became inflamed from that day's exertion at Fish House, Summer House, and Mayfield, I do not know for certain.

But when at sunrise we drove up to Jimmy Burke's Tavern in Johnstown, I discovered that I could not move my right leg; and, to my mortification, Nick and my Indian were forced to make a swinging chair of their linked hands, and carry me into the tavern, Penelope following forlornly, her arms full of furs and blankets.

Here was a pretty dish! But try as I might I could not set my foot to the ground; so they laid me upon a bed and stripped me, and my Saguenay wrapped my leg in hot blankets and laid furs over me, till I was wet with sweat to the hair.

Presently comes Jimmy Burke himself—that lively, lovable scamp, to whom all were friendly; for he was both kind and gay, though a great braggart, and few believed that he had any stomach for the deeds he said he meant to do in battle.

"Faith," says he, "it's Misther Drogue, God bless him, an' in a sad plight along o' the bloody Sacandaga Tories! Wisha then, sorr, had I been there it's me would ha' trimmed the hair o' them!"

"Are you well, Jimmy?" I inquired, smiling, spite my pain.

"Am I well? I am that! I was never fitter f'r to fight thim dirty green coats of Sir John's. Och—the poor lad! Lave me fetch a hot brick——"

"I'm lame as a one-legged duck, Jimmy," said I. "Send word to the Fort that I've an account to render, and beg the Commandant to overlook my tardiness until I can be carried thither on a litter."

"And th' yoong leddy, sorr? Will she bait here?"

"Yes; where is she?"

"She lies on a wolf-skin on the bed in the next chamber, foreninst the wall, sorr. There's tears on her purty face, but I think she sleeps, f'r all that. Is she hurted, too, Misther Drogue?"

"Oh, no. When she wakes send a maid-servant to care for her. Find a loft-bed for my Indian and give him no rum—mind that, James Burke!—or we quarrel."

"Th' red divil gets no sup in my shabeen!" said he. "Do I lave him gorge or no?"

"Certainly. Let him stuff himself. And let no man use him with contempt. He is faithful and brave. He is my friend. Do you mark me, Jimmy?"

"I do, sorr. And Nick Stoner—that long-legged limb of Satan!—av he plays anny thricks on Jimmy Burke may God help him—the poor little scut!—--"

I had some faint recollection of pranks played upon Burke by Nick in this same tavern; but what he had done to Jimmy I did not remember, save that it had set Sir William and the town all a-laughing.

"Nick is a good lad and my friend," said I. "Use him kindly. Your wit is a match for his, anyway, and so are your fists."

"Is it so!" muttered Burke, casting a smouldering side-look at me. "D'ye mind what he done three year come Shrove Tuesday? The day I gave out I was a better man than Sir William's new blacksmith? Well, then—av ye disremember—that scut of a Nick shtole me breeches, an' he put them on a billy-goat, an' tuk him to the tap-room where was company. An', 'Here,' says he, 'is a better Irishman than you, Jimmy Burke!—an' a better fighter, too.' An' wid that the damned goat rares up an' butts me over; an' up I gets an' he butts me over, an' up an' down I go, an' the five wits clean knocked out o' me, an' the company an' Sir William all yelling like loons an' laying odds on the goat——"

I lay there convulsed with laughter, remembering now this prank of the most mischievous boy I ever knew.

Burke licked his lips grimly at the memory of that ancient wrong.

"Sure, he's th' bould wan f'r to come into me house wid the score unreckoned an' all that balance agin' him."

"Touch pewter with him and forgive the lad," said I. "These are sterner days, Jimmy, and we should cherish no private malice here where we may be put to it to stand siege."

"Is it thrue, sor, that the destructives are on the Sacandaga?"

"Yes, it is true. Fish House, Summer House, and Fonda's Bush are in ashes, Jimmy, and your late friend, Sir John, is at Buck Island with a thousand Indians, regulars, and Tories, and like to pay us a call before planting time."

"Oh, my God," says Burke, "the divil take Sir John an' the black heart of him av he comes back here to murther his old neighbors! Sorra the day we let him scape!—him an' Alex White, an' Toby Tice an' moody Wally Butler,—an' ould John, an' Indian Claus, an' Black Guy!—may the divil take the whole Tory ruck o' them!—--"

He checked himself; behind him, through the door, entered a Continental Captain; and I sat up in bed to do him courtesy.

As I suspected, here proved to be our Commandant come to learn of me my news; and it presently appeared that Nick had run to the jail with an account of how I lay here crippled.

Well, the Commandant was a simple, kindly man, whose present anxiety made little of military custom. And so he had come instantly to learn my news of me; and we talked there alone for an hour.

At his summons a servant fetched paper, ink, pen and sand; and, whilst he looked on, I wrote out my report to him.

Also, I made for him a drawing of the Drowned Lands from Fish House to Mayfield, marking all roads and paths and trails, and all canoe water, carries, and cleared land. For, as Brent-Meester, no man had more accurate knowledge of Tryon than had I; and it was all clearly in my mind, so that to make a map of it proved no task at all.

I asked him if I was to remain detached and with authority to raise a company of rangers—as had once been given me—or whether, perhaps, the Line lacked commissioned officers, saying that it was all one to me and that I wished only to serve where most needed.

He replied that, unless I went to Morgan's corps of Virginia Riflemen, concerning which detail he had heard some talk, my full value lay in my woodcraft and in my wide, personal knowledge of the wilderness.

"Who better than you, Mr. Drogue, could take a scout to this same Buck Island, where Sir John's hordes are gathering? Who better than yourself could undertake a swift and secret mission to any point within the confines of this vast desolation of mountain, lake, and forest, which promises soon to be the theatre of a most bloody struggle?

"Champlain already spews red-coats upon us in the North. Sir John threatens in the West. A great army menaces the Highland Forts and Albany from the South. And only such officers as you, sir, are competent to discover and dog the march of enemy marauders, come to touch with their scouts, follow and ambush them, and lead others to vital points across an uncharted world of woods when there are raiders to check or communications to threaten and cut."

He rose, hooked up his sword, and shook hands with me.

"I have asked Colonel Willett," said he, "to use your talents in this manner, and he has very kindly consented. Johnstown will remain your base, therefore, and your employment is certain as soon as you are able to walk."

I thanked him and said very confidently that I should be rid of all lameness and pain within a day or so.

That night I had a fever; and for pearly four weeks my leg remained swollen and red, and the pain was such that I could not bear the weight of a linen sheet, and Nick made a frame for my bed-covers, like a tent, so that they should not touch me.

Dr. Younglove came from the Flatts,—who was surgeon in General Herkimer's brigade of militia—and he said it was a pernicious rheumatism consequent upon the cold wetting I got upon a wound still green.

Further, he concluded, there was naught to do save that I must lie on my back until my trouble departed of its own accord; but he could not say how soon that might me—whether within a day or two or as many months, or more.

He recommended hot blankets and some draughts which they sent me from the pharmacy at the Fort, but I think they did me neither good nor evil, but were pleasant and spicy and cooled my throat.

So that was now the dog's life I led during the early summer in Johnstown,—a most vexatious and inglorious career, laid by the heels at a time when, from three points o' the compass, three separate storms were brewing and darkening the heavens, and a tempest more frightful than man could conceive was threatening to shatter Tryon, sweep the whole Mohawk Valley, and leave Johnstown but a whirl of whitened ashes in the evening winds.

We were comfortably established at Burke's Inn, and, as always, baited well where food and bed were ever clean and good.

Penelope had the chamber next to mine; Nick slept in the little bedroom on my left; and the Saguenay haunted the kitchen, with a perpetual appetite never damaged by gorging.

All the news of town and country was fetched me by word o' mouth, by penny broadsides, by journals, so that I never wanted for gossip to entertain or alarm me.

Town tattle, rumours from West and North, camp news conveyed by Coureurs-du-Bois, by runners, by expresses, all this came to my chamber where I lay impatient, brought sometimes by Burke, often by Nick, more often by Penelope.

She was very kind and patient with me. In the first feverish and agonizing days of my illness I had sent for her, and begged her to take the first convenient waggon and escort into Albany, where surely Douw Fonda would now care for her and the Patroon's household would welcome and shelter her until the oncoming storm had passed and her aged charge should again return to Caughnawaga.

She would not go, but gave no reason. And, my sickness making me peevish, I was often fretful and short with her; and so badgered and bullied her that one night, in desperation, she wrote a letter to Douw Fonda at my request, offering to go to Albany and care for him if he desired it.

But presently there came a polite letter in reply, writ kindly to her by the young Patroon himself, who very delicately revealed how it was with Mr. Fonda. And it appeared that he had become childish from great age, and seemed now to retain no memory of her, and desired not to be cared for by anybody—as he said—who was a stranger to him.

Which was sad to know concerning so good and wise and gallant an old gentleman as had been Mr. Douw Fonda,—a fine, honourable, educated and cultivated man, whose chiefest pleasure was in his books and garden, and who never in all his life had uttered an unkind word.

This news, too, was disturbing in another manner; for Mr. Fonda had wished, as all knew, to adopt Penelope and make provision for her. And now, if his mind had begun to cloud and his memory betray him, no provision was likely to be made to support this young girl who was utterly alone in the world, and entirely without fortune.

On an afternoon late in May I was feeling less pain, and could permit the covers to rest on me, and was impatient for a dish o' porridge. About five o'clock Penelope brought me a bowl of chocolate. When she had seated herself near me, she took her sewing from her apron pocket, and stitched away busily whilst I drank my sweet, hot brew, and watched her over the blue bowl's edge.

"Are you better this afternoon, sir?" she inquired presently, not lifting her eyes.

I told her, fretfully, that I was but a lame dog and fit only to be knocked on the head by some obliging Tory. "I'm sick o' life," said I, "where no one heeds me, and I am left alone all day without food or companionship, to play at twiddle-thumb."

At that she looked at me in sweet concern, but, seeing me wear a wry grin, smiled too.

"Poor lad," said she, "it is nearly a month you lie there so patiently."

"Not patiently; no! And if I knew more oaths than I think up all day long it might ease me to endure more meekly this accursed sickness.... What is it you sew?"

"Wrist-bands."

"Whose?"

As she offered no reply I supposed that she was making a pair o' bands for Nick.

"Do you hear further from Albany?" I inquired.

"No, sir."

"Then it is sure that Mr. Fonda has become childish and his memory is gone," said I, "because if he comprehended your present situation and your necessity he would surely have sent for you long since."

"He always was kind," she said simply.

I lay on my pillows, sipping chocolate and watching her fingers so deft with thread and needle. After a long silence I asked her rather bluntly why she had not long ago consented to the necessary legal steps offered her by Mr. Fonda, which would have secured her always against want.

As she made me no answer, I looked hard at her over my bowl, and saw her eyes very faintly glimmering with tears.

"The news of Mr. Fonda's condition has greatly saddened you," said I.

"Yes. He was kind to me."

"Why, then, did you evade his expressed wishes?" I repeated. "He must surely have loved you like a father to offer you adoption."

"I could not accept," she said in a low voice, sewing rapidly the while.

"Why not?"

"I scarcely know. It was because of pride, perhaps.... I was his servant. He paid me well. I could not permit him to overpay my poor services.... And he has other children, and grandchildren, with whose proper claims I would not permit myself—or him—to interfere. No, it was unthinkable—however kindly meant——"

"That," said I impatiently, "smacks of a too Scotch and stubborn conscience, does it not, Penelope?"

"Stubborn Scotch pride, I fear. For it is not in my Scottish nature to accept benefits for which I never can hope to render service in return."

"Imaginary obligation!" said I scornfully, yet admiring the independence which, naked and defenceless, prefers to spin its own raiment rather than accept the divided cloak of charity.

And it was plain to me that this girl was no beggar, no passive accepter of bounties unearned from anybody. And now I was secretly chagrined and ashamed that I had so postured before her as My Lord Bountiful, and had offered her the Summer House who had refused a modest fortune from a good old man who loved her and who had some excuse and reason to so deal by one to whom his bodily comfort had long been beholden.

"Few," said I, "would have put aside so agreeable an opportunity for ease and comfort in life. I fear you were foolish, Penelope."

She smiled at me: "There is a family saying, 'A Grant grants but never accepts'.... I have youth, health, two arms, two legs, and a pair of steady eyes. If these can not keep me alive through the world's journey, then I ought to perish and make room for another."

"What do you meditate to keep you?" I asked uneasily.

"For the present," said she, still smiling, "what I am doing is well enough to keep me in food and clothes and lodging."

At first I did not understand her, then an odd suspicion seized me; for I remembered during the last two weeks, when I lay sick, hearing strange voices in her ante-chamber, and strange people coming and going in the passageway.

Seeing me perplexed and frowning, she laughed and took the empty bowl from my hands, and set it aside. Then she smoothed my pillow.

"I am employed by the garrison," said she, "to work for them with needle and shears. I do their mending; I darn, stitch, sew, and alter. I patch shirts and under-garments; I also make shirts, and devise officers' neck-cloths, stocks, and wrist-bands at request.

"Also, I now employ a half-breed Oneida woman as tailoress; and she first measures and then I cut out patterns of coats, breeches, rifle-frocks, and watch-coats, which she then takes home and sews, then tries on her customers, and finally finishes,—I sewing on all galons, laces, and braids.... And so you see I pay my way, Mr. Drogue, and am in no stress for the present at any rate."

"Good heavens!" said I amazed, "I never dreamed that you were so employed!"

"But I am obliged to eat, John Drogue!"

"I have sufficient for both," I muttered. "I thought it was understood——"

"That I should live on your bounty, my lord?"

"Will you ever have done with lording me?" I said angrily. "I think you do it to plague me."

"I ask forgiveness," she murmured, still smiling. "Also, I crave pardon for refusing to live on your kind bounty."

"I do not mean it that way!" said I sharply. "Besides, you kept Summer House for us, and did all things indoors and most things outdoor; and had no pay for the labour——"

"I had food and a bed. And your protection.... And most excellent company," she added, smiling saucily upon me. "You owe me nothing, John Drogue. Nor do I mean to owe you,—or any man,—more than that proper debt of kindness which kindness to me begets."

I lay back on my pillows, not knowing whether to laugh or scowl. That Penelope had become a tailoress and sempstress to the garrison did not pleasure me at all; and it was as though I had lost some advantage or influence over this girl, whose present situation and whose future did now considerably begin to concern me.

Yet, what was I to say against this business, or what offer make her that her modesty and pride could consider?

It was perfectly clear to me that she never had intended to be obliged to me for anything, and never would be. And now her saucy smile and gentle mockery confirmed this conclusion and put me out of countenance.

I cast a troubled glance at her from my pillow, where she sat by my bed sewing on a pair of wrist-bands for some popinjay of the garrison—God knew who he might be!—and, as I regarded her, further and further she seemed to be slipping out of my influence and out of the care which, mentally at least, I had felt it my duty to give to her.

She troubled me. She troubled me deeply. Her independence, her sufficiency, her beauty, her sly and pretty mockery of me, all conspired to give me a new concern for her, and I had not experienced the like since Steve Watts kissed her by the lilacs.

I had seen her in many phases, but never before in this phase, and I knew not what face to put on such a disturbing situation.

For a while I lay there frowning and sulky, and spoke not. She tranquilly finished her wrist-bands, went to her chamber, returned with a dozen stocks, all cut out and basted, and picked up one to fit a plain military frill to it.

From my window, near where my head rested, I saw a gold sunset between the maple trees and the roofs across the street. Birds sang their evening carols,—robins on every fence post, orioles in the elms, and far away a wood-thrush filled the quiet with his liquid ecstasies.

And suddenly it seemed to me horrible and monstrous that this heavenly tranquillity should be shattered by the red blast of war!—that men could actually be planning to devastate this quiet land where already the new harvest promised, tender and green; where cattle grazed in blossoming meadows; where swallows twittered and fowls clucked; where smoke drifted from chimneys and the homely sights and sounds of a peaceful town sweetened the evening silence.

Then the thought of my own helplessness went through me like a spear, and I groaned,—not meaning to,—and turned over on my pillow.... And presently felt her hand lightly on my shoulder.

"Is it pain?" she asked softly.

"No, only the weariness of life," I muttered.

She was silent, but presently her hand smoothed back my hair, and passed in a sort of gentle rhythm across my forehead and my hair.

"If I lie here long enough," said I bitterly, "I may have to beg a crust of you. So get you to your sewing and see that you earn enough against a beggared cripple's need."

"You mock me," she said in a low voice.

"Why, no," said I. "If I am to remain crippled my funds will dwindle and go, and one day I shall sit in the sun like any poor old soldier, with palm lifted for alms——"

"I beg—I beg you——" she stammered; and her hand closed on my lips as though to stifle the perverse humour.

"Would you offer me charity if I remain crippled?" I managed to say.

"Hush. You sadden me."

"Would you aid me?" I insisted.

She drew a long, deep breath but made no answer.

"Tell me," I repeated, taking her by the hand, "would you aid me, Penelope Grant?"

"Why do you ask?" she protested. "You know I would."

"And yet," said I, "although I am in funds, you refuse aid and choose rather to play the tailoress! Is that fair?"

"But—I am nothing to you——"

"Are you not? And am I then more to you than are you to me, that you would aid me in necessity?"

She drew her hand from mine and went back to her chair.

"That is my fate," said she, smiling at me. "I was born to give, not to receive. I can not take; I can not refuse to give."

"Yes," said I, "you even gave me your lips once."

She blushed vividly, her eyes hard on her sewing.

"I shall not do the like again," said she, all rosy to the roots of her gold hair.

"And why, pray?"

"Because I know better now."

After a silence I turned me on my pillow and sighed heavily.

"John?" she inquired in gentle anxiety, "are you in great pain?"

I groaned.

She came to me again and laid her cool, soft hand on my head; and I caught it in both of mine and drew her down to me.

"I am a cripple and a beggar for your kindness, Penelope," I said. "I ask alms of you. Will you kiss me?"

"Oh," she exclaimed, "you have deceived me! Let me go! Loose me instantly!"

"Will you kiss me out of that charity which you say you practice?"

"That is not charity!—--"

"What is begged for is charity. And you say you are made to give."

"But you taught me otherwise! And now you undo your own schooling!—--"

"But I owe it you—this kiss!"

"How do you owe it me?"

"You kissed me in the snow, and left me in your debt."

"Oh, goodness! That frolic! Have you not long ago forgotten our winter madness——"

"Like you," said I, "I must pay my just debts and owe nobody." And I drew her nearer, all flushed with protest, firm to escape, yet gentle in her supple, pretty way lest she hurt me.

I laughed, and saw my gaiety reflected in her eyes an instant.

Then, of a sudden, she put one arm around my neck and rested her lips on mine. And so I kissed her, and she suffered it, resting so against me with lowered eyes.

The flower-sweetness of her mouth bewildered me, and I was confused by it and by the stifled tumult of my heart, so that I scarce had sense enough to detain her when she drew away.

She sat at my side, the faint smile still stamped on her lips, but her brown eyes seemed a little frightened, and her breast rose and fell like a scared bird's under the snowy kerchief.

"Well—and well," says she in her pretty, breathless way—"I am overpaid, I think, and you are now acquitted of your debt. And so—and so our folly ends ... and now is finally ended."

She took her sewing. A golden light was in the room; and she seemed to me the loveliest thing I had ever looked upon. I realized it. I knew she was loveliest of all. And the swift knowledge seemed to choke me.

After a little while she stole a look at me, met my eyes, laughed guiltily.

"You!" said she, "a schoolmaster! You teach me one thing and would have me practice another. What confidence can I entertain for such wisdom as is yours, John Drogue?"

"Rules," said I, "are made to be proven by their more interesting exceptions. However, in future you are to endure no kiss and no caress—unless from me."

"Oh. Is that the new lesson I am to learn and understand?"

"That is the lesson. Will you remember it when I am gone?"

"Gone?"

"Yes. When I am gone away on duty. Will you remember, Penelope?"

"I am like to," she said under her breath, and sewing rapidly.

She stitched on in silence for a while; but now the light was dimming and she moved nearer the window, which was close by my bed head.

After a while her hands dropped in her lap; she looked out into the twilight. I took her tired little hand in mine, but she did not turn her head.

"I have," said I, "two thousand pounds sterling at my solicitor's in Albany. I wish you to have it if any accident happens to me.... And my glebe in Fonda's Bush.... I shall so write it in my will."

She shook her head slightly, still gazing from the window.

"Will you accept?" I asked.

"What good would it do me? If I accept it I should only divide it among the needy—in memory of—of my dear boy friend—Jack Drogue——"

She rose hastily and walked to the door, then very slowly retraced her steps to my bedside.

"You are so kind to me," she murmured, touching my forehead.

"You are so different to other men,—so truly gallant in your boy's soul. There is no evil in you,—no ruthlessness. Oh, I know—I know—more than I seem to know—of men.... And their importunities.... And of their wilful selfishness."

I sat up straight. "Has any man made you unhappy?" I demanded in angry surprise.

She seated herself and looked at me gravely.

"Do you know," she said, "men have courted me always—even when I was scarce more than a child? And mine is a friendly heart, Mr. Drogue. I have a half shy desire to please. I am loath to inflict pain. But always my kindness seems like to cost me more than I choose to pay."

"Pay to whom?"

"To any man.... For example, I would not elope with Stephen Watts when he begged me at Caughnawaga. And Walter Butler addressed me also—in secret—being a friend of the Fondas and so free of the house.... And was ever stealthily importuning me to a stolen rendezvous which I had sense enough to refuse, knowing him to be both married and a rake, and cruel to women.

"Oh, I tell you that they all courted me,—not kindly,—for ever there seemed to me in their ardent gaze and discreet whisperings something vaguely sinister. Not that it frightened me, nor did I take alarm, being too ignorant——"

She folded her hands and looked down at them.

"I like men.... I cared most for Stephen Watts.... Then one day I had a great fright.... Shall I tell it?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, Sir John's gallantries neither pleased nor flattered me from the first. But he was very cautious what he said and did in Douw Fonda's house, and never spoke to me save coldly when others were present, or when he was alone with us and Mr. Fonda was awake and not dozing in his great chair.... Well, there came a day when Mr. Fonda went to the house of Captain Fonda, and I was alone in the house....

"And Sir John came.... Shall I tell it?"

"Tell it, Penelope."

"I've had it long in my mind. I wished to ask you if it lessened me in your esteem.... For Sir John was drunk, and, finding me alone, he conducted roughly—and followed me and locked us in my chamber.... I was horribly afraid.... I had never struck any living being before. But I beat his red face with my hands until he became confused and stupid—and there was blood on him and on me.... And my kerchief was torn off and my hair all tangled.... I beat him till he dropped my door key, and so unlocked my door and returned again to him, silent and flaming, and drove him with blows out o' my chamber and out of the house—all over blood as he was, and stupid and drunk.... His negro man got him on his horse and rode off, holding him on.

"And none knew—none know, save Sir John and you and I."

After a silence I said in a controlled voice: "If Sir John comes this way I shall hope not to miss him.... I shall pray God not to miss this—gentleman."

"Do you think meanly of me that he used me so?"

I did not answer.

"I have told you all," she said timidly. "I am still honest. If I were not I would not have let you touch my lips."

"Why not?"

"For both our sakes.... I would not do you any evil."

I said impatiently: "No need to tell me you never had a lover. I never believed it of you from the day I saw you first. And, God willing, I mean to stop a mouth or two in Tryon, war or no war——"

"John Drogue!" she exclaimed in consternation—"you shall seek no quarrel on my account! Swear to me!"

But I made no reply. Whatever the quarrel, I knew now it was to be on my own account; for whether or no I was falling in love with this girl, Penelope Grant, I realized at all events that I would suffer no other man to interfere, however he conducted, and should hold any man to stern account who would make of this girl a toy and plaything.

And so, all hotly resolved on that point; sore, also, at the knowledge of Sir John's baseness which seemed to touch my proper honour; and swifter, too, with tenderness in my heart to reassure her, I did exactly that for which I was now prepared to cut the throats of various other gentlemen—I drew her into my arms and held her close, body and lips imprisoned.

She sought her chair and sat there silent and subdued until a maid-servant brought lights and my supper.

In the candle light she ventured to look at me and laugh.

"Such schooling" says she. "I never knew before that there was such a personage as a sweetheart pro tem! But you seem to know the rÔle by heart, Mr. Drogue. And so, no doubt, feel warranted to instruct others. But this is the end of it, my friend. For one day you shall have to confess you to your wife! And I think my future Lady Northesk is like to have a pretty temper and will give you a mauvais quart d'heur when she hears of this May day's folly in a Johnstown public house!"