Drayton was lying on the settle when Peggy announced General Arnold. He sprang to his feet with an exclamation as the latter entered, and then shrank back and hung his head.

“You, you,” he murmured brokenly. “Oh, how can you bear to see me?”

“And is it thus we meet again, Drayton?” said the general, all the reserve and hauteur of his manner vanishing before the distress of his former soldier.

“’Twas cold,” muttered Drayton too ashamed to raise his head. “I—I feared it sir. You cannot understand,” he broke out. “How can a man of your courage know how such things eat the very heart out of a fellow?”

“I do know, boy,” exclaimed Arnold seating himself on the settle. “What would you say if I were to tell you that once I deserted?”

“You?” cried the youth flinging up his head to stare at him. “I’d never believe it, sir. You desert! Impossible!”

“Nevertheless, I did, my lad. Listen, and I will tell you of it. I was fifteen at the time, and my imagination had been fired by tales of the atrocities committed on the frontier by the French and Indians. I resolved to enlist and relieve the dire state of my countrymen as far as lay in my power. So I ran away from home to Lake George, where the main part of the army was at the time. The wilderness of that northern country was dense, and I passed through hardships similar to those we sustained in our march to Quebec. You know, Drayton, what an army may have to endure in such circumstances?”

Drayton nodded, his eyes fixed on his beloved leader with fascinated interest.

“Well,” continued the general, “the privations proved too much for a lad of my age, so I deserted, and made my way home. I shall never forget the fright my good mother would be in if she but caught a glimpse of the recruiting officer. I was under the required age for the army, to be sure, but none the less I skulked and hid until the French and Indian war had ceased, and there was no longer need for hiding.”

“You,” breathed the youth in so low a tone as scarce to be heard, “you did that, and then made that charge at Saratoga? You, sir?”

“Even I,” the general told him briefly. “’Tis a portion of my life that I don’t often speak of, Drayton, but I thought that it might help you to know that I could understand—that others before you have been faint hearted, and then retrieved themselves.”

“You?” spoke the lad again in a maze. “You! and then after that, the march through that awful wilderness! Why, sir, ’twas you that held us together. ’Twas you, that when the three hundred turned back and left us to our fate, ’twas you who cried: ‘Never mind, boys! There’ll be more glory for the rest of us.’ ’Twas you that cheered us when our courage flagged. ’Twas you that carried us through. And then Valcour! Why, sir, look at the British ships you fought. And Ticonderoga! And Crown Point! And Ridgefield, where six horses were shot from under you!”

“And do you remember all those?” asked Arnold, touched. “Would that Congress had a like appreciation of my services; but it took a Saratoga to gain even my proper rank.”

“I know,” cried the boy hotly. “Haven’t we men talked it over by the camp-fires? Were it left to the soldiers you should be next to the commander-in-chief himself.”

“I know that, my lad,” spoke the general, markedly pleased by this devotion. “But now a truce to that, and let us consider your case. Miss Peggy here tells me that you wish to return to the army?”

“I do,” said the youth earnestly. “Indeed, General Arnold, no one could help it about her. She gave me no peace until I so declared myself.”

“I understand that she read ‘The Crisis’ to you,” said Arnold, a smile playing about his lips. “But you, Drayton. Aside from that, is it your wish to return to the army? It hath ofttimes been in my thoughts of late to obtain a grant of land and retire thereto with such of my men as were sick and weary of the war. I have in truth had some correspondence anent the subject with the state of New York. Would you like to be one of my household there?”

“Beyond anything,” spoke Drayton eagerly. “But not until I have redeemed myself, general. Were I to go before you would always be wondering if I would not fail you at some crucial moment. You have won your laurels, sir, and deserve retirement. But I have mine to gain. Give me another chance. That is all I ask.”

“You shall have it, Drayton. Come with me, and I will send you with a note to General Washington. He hath so much of friendship for me that because I ask it he will give you the chance you wish.”

“But the uniform,” interposed Peggy who had been a pleased listener to the foregoing conversation. “I made him a uniform, Friend Arnold. Should he not wear it?”

“’Twould be most ungallant not to, Miss Peggy,” returned the commander laughing.

“I knew not that you had made it,” exclaimed Drayton as Peggy disappeared, and returned with the uniform in question. “Why, ’tis but a short time since I said that I would go back. How could you get it done so soon?”

Peggy laughed.

“It hath been making a long time,” she confessed. “Mother helped me with dyeing the cloth, but all the rest I did myself. I knew that thee would go back from the first.”

“’Twas more than I did then,” declared Drayton as the girl left the room once more in search of her mother. “Sir, could a man do aught else than return to his allegiance when urged to it by such a girl?”

“No,” agreed his general with a smile. “Drayton, your friend hath clothed you with a uniform of her own manufacture. You have shown an appreciation of Benedict Arnold such as I knew not that any held of my services to the country. Take therefore this sword,” unbuckling it from his waist as he spoke. “’Tis the one I used in that dash at Saratoga that you followed. Take it, Ensign Drayton, and wear it in memory of him who was once your commanding officer.”

“Your sword?” breathed Drayton with a gasp of amazement. “Your sword, General Arnold? I am not worthy! I am not worthy!”

“Tut, tut, boy! I make no doubt but that you will wield it with more honor than it hath derived from the present owner,” said the other pressing it upon the lad.

“Then, sir, I take it,” said Drayton clasping it with a reverent gesture. “And may God requite me with my just deserts if ever I bring disgrace upon it. Sir, I swear to you that never shall it be used, save as you have used it, in the defense of my country. Should ever I grow faint hearted again, I will have but to look at this sword, and think of the courage and patriotism of him who gave it to renew my courage. Pray heaven that I may ever prove as loyal to my country as Benedict Arnold hath shown himself.”

“You, you overwhelm me, boy,” gasped Arnold who had grown strangely pale as the lad was speaking. “I make no doubt but that you will grace the weapon as well as the original owner. Ah!” with evident relief, “here are Mrs. Owen and the fair Peggy. Doth not our soldier lad make a brave showing, Miss Peggy?”

“He doth indeed,” cried Peggy in delight. “And thee has given him thy sword, Friend Arnold! How monstrously good of thee!”

“Is it not?” asked Drayton in an awed tone. “And I am only a subaltern. Oh, Mistress Peggy, you will never have the opportunity to call me a summer soldier again. I have that which will keep me from ever being faint hearted again.” He touched the weapon proudly as he ended. “This will inspire me with courage.”

“Of course it will,” cried Peggy with answering enthusiasm. “Mother said all along that naught ailed thee but an empty stomach.”

“’Tis what ails the most of our soldiers,” said the boy as the laugh died away which this speech provoked. “’Tis marvelous how a little food doth raise the patriotism.”

“And thee will be sure to write?” questioned Peggy when they descended to the lower floor. “I shall be anxious to hear of thy well-being, and thee must remember, John, that ’tis my intention to keep thee in socks, and mittens, and to renew that uniform when ’tis needed. Thee shall be cold no more if I can help it. And how shall it be done unless thee will let me know thy whereabouts?”

“Have no fear. I shall be glad to write,” answered Drayton who, now that the time had come for departure, seemed loath to leave them. “Madam Owen, and Miss Peggy, you have made a new man of me. How shall I ever thank you for your care?”

“Speak not of it, dear lad,” said the lady gently. “If we have done thee good it hath not been without benefit to us also. And if thou dost need anything fail not to let us know. ’Tis sweet to minister to those who take the field in our defense. It makes thee very near and dear to us to know personally all that thee and thy fellows are undergoing for our sakes.”

“Dear lady, the man who will not fight for such as you deserves the fate of a deserter indeed,” exclaimed the youth, much moved. “I thank you again. You shall hear from me, but not as a summer soldier.”

He bent in a deep obeisance before both mother and daughter, and then with one last long look about him John Drayton followed General Arnold to the coach.