A very few moments had elapsed, and Peyton still sat by the table, in a dogged study, when the door from the south hall was opened slightly, and if he had looked he might have seen a pair of eyes peeping through the aperture. But he did not look, either then or when, some seconds later, the door opened wide and Miss Sally bobbed gracefully in.

It has been related how, after her brilliant but exhausting conduct of the important scene assigned her, she sought repose in her room. Looking out of her window presently, she saw something, of which she thought it advisable to inform Elizabeth. Therefore she came down-stairs. Did she listen at the door to the last part of that notable conversation? Ungallant thought, aroint thee! ’Tis well known women have little curiosity, and what little they have they would not, being of Miss Sally’s station in life, descend to gratify by eavesdropping. Let it be assumed, therefore, that the much vaunted informant, feminine intuition, told Miss Sally of the 237 end of the interview between her niece and the captain, both as to the time of that end and as to its nature.

She entered, tremulous with a vast idea that had blazed suddenly on her mind. Now that Elizabeth was quite through with Peyton, now that Peyton must be low in his self-esteem for Elizabeth’s humiliation of him, and therefore likely to be grateful for consolatory attentions, Miss Sally might resume her own hopes. But there was no time to be lost.

“Your pardon, captain,” she began, sweetly, with her most flattering smile. “I am looking for Miss Elizabeth.”

“She was here awhile ago,” replied Peyton, glumly, not bringing his eyes within range of the smile. “She went that way. I trust you’ve recovered from your attack.”

“My attack?” inquiringly, with surprise.

“The queer spell, I think Miss Philipse called it. She said you were subject to them.”

“Well, how does she dare—” She checked her tongue, lest she might betray the device for his detention. Something in his absent, careless way of associating her with a queer spell irritated her a little for the moment, and impelled her to retaliation. “I suppose that was not the only thing she said to you?” she added, ingenuously.

“No,—she said other things.” He rose and 238 went to the fireplace, leaned against the mantel, and gazed pensively at the red embers.

“They don’t seem to have left you very cheerful,” ventured Miss Sally.

“Not so very damned cheerful!—I beg your pardon.”

Miss Sally’s moment of resentment had passed. Now was the time to strike for herself. She thought she had hit on a clever plan of getting around to the matter.

“Captain,” said she, “you’re a man of the world. I know it’s presumptuous of me to ask it, but—if you would give me a word of advice—”

Peyton did not take his look from the fire, or his thoughts from their dismal absorption. He answered, half-unconsciously:

“Oh, certainly! Anything at all.”

“You are aware, of course,” she went on, with smirking, rosy confusion, “that Mr. Valentine is a widower.”

“Indeed? Oh, yes, yes, I know.”

“Yes, a widower twice over.”

“How sad! He must feel twice the usual amount of grief.”

“Why,—I don’t know exactly about that.”

“The poor man has my sympathy. Doubtless he is inconsolable.” Peyton scarce knew what he was saying, or whom it was about.

“Why, no,” said Miss Sally, averting her eyes, with a smiling shyness, “not altogether inconsolable. That’s just it.”

“Oh, is it?” said Peyton, obliviously.

“You may have noticed that he spends a good deal of time here at present,” she went on.

“A good deal of time,” he repeated. “There’s doubtless some strong attraction.”

“Yes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to say it, but there is a strong attraction. In fact, he has proposed marriage to me, and now, as a man of the world to a woman of little experience, would you advise me to accept him?”

And she looked at the disconsolate officer so sweetly, it seemed impossible he should do aught but say it would be throwing herself away to bestow on an old man charms of which younger and warmer eyes were sensible. But he answered only:

“Certainly! An excellent match!”

For a time Miss Sally was speechless, yet open-mouthed. And then, for the length of one brief but fiery tirade, she showed herself to be her niece’s aunt:

“Sir! The idea! I wouldn’t have that old smoke-chimney if he were the last man on earth! I’d have given him his congÉ long ago, if it hadn’t been that he might propose to my friend, the widow Babcock! I’ve only kept him on the string to prevent her getting him. When I want your advice, 240 Captain Peyton, I’ll ask for it! Excuse me, I must find Elizabeth. I’ve news for her.”

“News?” he echoed, stupidly.

“Yes. From my chamber window awhile ago I saw some one riding this way on the post-road,—Major Colden!”

And she swept out by the same door that had closed, a few minutes before, on Elizabeth.

“Major Colden!” Peyton’s teeth tightened, his eyes shot fire, his hand flew to his sword-hilt, as he spoke the name.

He went to the window, the same window at which Elizabeth had looked out a week ago, and peered through the panes at the night.

“Why, the ground is white,” he said. “It has begun to snow.”

But, through the large flakes that fell thick and swiftly among the trees, he did not yet see any humankind approaching. His view of the branch road was, at some places, obstructed by tall shrubbery that rose high above the palings and the hedge.

Yet through those flakes, assaulted by them in eyes and nostrils, invaded by them in ears and neck, humankind was riding. It was, indeed, Colden that Miss Sally had seen through a fortuitous opening, which gave, between the trees, a view of the most eminent point of the post-road southward. He was to conduct Elizabeth home the next day, but 241 had availed himself of his opportunity to ride out to the manor-house that night, so as to have the few more hours in her society. He had this time taken an escort of two privates of his own regiment, but these men were not as well mounted as he, and, in his impatience, having seen the best their horses could do, and having passed King’s Bridge, he had ridden ahead of them, leaving them to follow to the manor-house in their own speediest time. Thus it was that now he bore alone down from the post-road, his horse’s feet making on the new-fallen snow no other sound than a soft crunching, scarce louder than its heavy breathing or its mouth-play on the bit, or the creak and clank of saddle, bridle, stirrups, pistols, and scabbard. His eyes dwelt eagerly on the manor-house, where awaited him light and warmth and wine, refuge from the pelting flakes, and, above all else, the joy-giving presence of Elizabeth. His breast expanded, he sighed already with relief; he approached the gate as a released soul, with admission ticket duly purchased by a deathbed repentance, might approach the gate of heaven.

But Peyton, looking out on the white world, saw no one. He did not change his attitude when the door reopened and Elizabeth and her aunt came into the parlor, arm in arm.

“You’re sure ’twas he, aunt Sally?” Elizabeth had been saying.

“Positive. He should be here now,” Miss Sally had replied.

Elizabeth cast a look of secret elation on the unheeding rebel captain, whose forehead was still against the window-pane. She saw a possible means of his still further degradation.

Suddenly he took a quick step back from the window, impulsively renewed his grasp of his sword-hilt, and showed a face of resolute antagonism.

Elizabeth knew from this that he had seen Colden. She gave a smile of pleasant anticipation.

But Miss Sally had relapsed into her usual timid self. She held tightly to Elizabeth’s arm.

“Oh, dear!” she whispered. “Won’t something happen when those two meet?”

“I hope so!” said Elizabeth, placidly.

“Why?” demanded Miss Sally, beginning to weaken at the knees.

“If Colden sends him to the ground, in our presence, that will crown the fellow’s humiliation.”

Five brisk knocks, in quick succession, were heard from the outside door of the east hall.

Peyton walked across the parlor, turned, and stood facing the east hall door, the greater part of the room’s length being between him and it. His hand remained on his sword. He paid no heed to Elizabeth, she paid none to him.

“His knock!” she said, and called out through 243 the east hall door: “’Tis Major Colden, Sam. Show him here at once.” She then stepped back from the door, to a place whence she could see both it and Peyton. Her aunt clung to her arm all the while, and now whispered, “Oh, Elizabeth, I fear there will be trouble!”

“If there is, it won’t fall on your silly head,” whispered Elizabeth, in reply.

From the hall came the sound of the drawing of bolts. Peyton did not take his eyes from the door.

A noise of footfalls, accompanied by clank of spurs and weapons, and in came Colden, his hat in his left hand, snow on his hat and shoulders, his cloak open, his sword and pistols visible, his right hand ungloved to clasp Elizabeth’s.

She received him with such a cordial smile as he had never before had from her.

“Elizabeth!” he cried,—beheld only her, hastened to her, took her proffered hand, bent his head and kissed the fingers, raised his eyes with a grateful, joyous smile,—and saw Peyton standing motionless at the other side of the room. The smile vanished; a look of amazement and hatred came.

“I wish you a very good evening, Major Colden!”

Peyton said this in a voice as hard and ironical as might have come from a brass statue.

For the next few seconds the two men stood 244 gazing at each other, the women gazing at the men. At last the Tory major found speech:

“Elizabeth,—what does it mean? Why is this man here,—again?”

“’Tis rather a long story, Jack, and you shall hear it all in time,” said Elizabeth, determined he should never hear the true story.

Before she could continue, Colden suffered a start of alarm to possess him, and asked, quickly:

“Are any of his troops here?”

“No; he is quite alone,” she answered.

Colden at once took on height, arrogance, and formidableness.

“Then why have not your servants made him a prisoner?” he asked.

“Why,” said she, “you being mentioned to-night, in his presence, he made some kind of boast of not fearing you, and I, divining how soon you would be here, thought fit his freedom with your name should best be paid for at your hands, major.”

“Ay, major,” put in Peyton, “and I have stayed to receive payment!”

Colden thought for a short while. Then he said, “A moment, Elizabeth. Your pardon, Miss Williams,” and drew Elizabeth aside, and spoke to her in a low tone: “We have only to temporize with him. Two of my men have attended me from my quarters. I had a better horse, and rode ahead, in 245 my eagerness to see you. My two fellows will be here soon, and the business will be done.”

But such doing of the business did not suit Elizabeth’s purpose. “I wish to humiliate the man,” she answered Colden, inaudibly to the others; “to take down his upstart pride! ’Twould be no shame to him, to be made prisoner by numbers.”

“What, then?” asked Colden, dubiously.

“Bring down the coxcomb, before us women, in an even match!”

To prevent objections, she then abruptly went from Colden, and resumed her place at her aunt’s side.

Colden stood frowning, not half pleased at her hint. It occurred to him, as it did not to her, that the mere allegiance and favoring wishes of herself were not sufficient possessions to ensure victory in such a match as she meant. Elizabeth, accustomed to success, did not conceive it possible that the chosen agent of her own designs could fail. But the chosen agent had, in this case, wider powers of conception.

All this time, Captain Peyton had stood as motionless as a figure in a painting. He now interrupted Colden’s meditations with the gentle reminder:

“I am waiting for my payment, Major Colden.”

Colden was not a man of much originality. So, 246 in his instinctive endeavor to gain time, he bungled out the conventional reply, “You wish to seek a quarrel with me, sir?”

“Seek a quarrel?” retorted Peyton. “Is not the quarrel here? Has not Miss Philipse spoken of an offence to your name, for which I ought to receive payment from you? Gad, she’d not have to speak twice to make me draw!”

Colden continued to be as conventional as a virtuous hero of a novel. “I do not fight in the presence of ladies, sir,” said he.

“Nor I,” said Peyton. “Choose your own place, in the garden yonder. With snow on the ground, there’s light enough.”

And Harry went quickly, almost to the door, near which he stopped to give Colden precedence.

“Nay,” put in Elizabeth, “we ladies can bear the sight of a sword-cut or two. Wait for us,” and she would have gone to send for wraps, but that Colden raised his hand in token of refusal, saying:

“Nay, Elizabeth. I will not consent.”

“Come, sir,” said Peyton. “’Tis no use to oppose a lady’s whim. But if you make haste, we may have it over before they can arrive on the ground.”

In handling his sword-hilt, Peyton had pulled the weapon a few inches out of the scabbard, and now, though he did not intend to draw while in the house, 247 he unconsciously brought out the full length of what remained of the blade. For the time he had forgotten the sword was broken, and now he was reminded of it with some inward irritation.

Meanwhile Colden was answering:

“There’s no regularity in such a meeting. Where are the seconds?”

“I’ll be your second, major,” cried Elizabeth. “Aunt Sally, second Captain Peyton.”

“Ridiculous!” said the major.

“Anything to bring you out,” said Peyton, as desirous of avenging himself on Elizabeth, through her affianced, as she was to complete her own revenge through the same instrument. “I’ll fight you with half a sword. I’d forgotten ’tis all I’ve left.”

“I would not take an advantage,” said the New Yorker.

“Then break your own sword, and make us equal,” said the Virginian.

“I value my weapon too much for that.”

Peyton smiled ironically. But he tried again.

“Then I shall be less scrupulous,” said he. “I will take an advantage. The greater honor to you, if you defeat me. You take the broken sword, and lend me yours.”

He held out his hilt for exchange.

Colden pretended to laugh, saying:

“Am I a fool to put it in your power to murder me?”

“I’ll tell you what, gentlemen,” put in Elizabeth. “Use the swords above the chimney-place, yonder. They are equal.”

“Yes!” cried Peyton.

But Colden said:

“I will not so degrade myself as to cross swords, except on the battle-field, with one who is a rebel, a deserter, and no gentleman.”

Peyton turned to Elizabeth with a smile.

“Then you see, madam,” said he, “’tis no fault of mine if my affronts go unpunished, since this gentleman must keep his courage for the battle-field! Egad,” he added, sacrificing truth for the sake of the taunt, “you Tories need all the courage there you can save up in a long time! I take my leave of this house!”

He thrust his sword back into the scabbard, bowed rapidly and low, with a flourish of his hat, and went out by the same door Elizabeth had used in her own moment of triumph. He unbolted the outside door himself, before black Sam could come from the settle to serve him. Snowflakes rushed in at the open door. He plunged into them, swinging the door close after him. Out through the little portico he went, down the walk outside the very parlor window through which he had looked out awhile ago, 249 but through which he did not now look in as he passed; through the gate, and up the branch road to the highway. He was possessed by a confusion of thoughts and feelings,—temporary and superficial elation at having put Elizabeth’s preferred lover in so bad a light, wild ideas of some future crossing of her path, swift dreams of a future conquest of her in spite of all, a fierce desire for such action as would lead to that end. He was eager to rejoin the army now, to participate in the fighting that would bring about the humbling of her cause and make it the more in his power to master her. He heeded little the snow that impeded his steps as his boots sank into it, and which, in falling, blinded his eyes, tickled his face, and clung to his hair. The tumult of flakes was akin to that of his feelings, and he was in mood for encountering such opposition as the storm made to his progress.

Arriving at the post-road, he turned and went northward. At his left lay the great lawn fronting the manor-house, and separated from the road by hedge and palings. He could see, across the snowy expanse, between the dark trunks and whitened branches of the trees, the long front of the manor-house, its roof and its porticoes already covered with snow, the light glowing in the one exposed window of the east parlor. As he quieted down within, he felt pleasantly towards the house, to which his week’s 250 half-solitary residence in it, with the comfort he had enjoyed there and the books he had read, had given him an attachment. He cast on it a last affectionate look, then breasted the weather onward, wondering what things the future might have in store for him.

He had little fear of not reaching the American lines in safety. It was unlikely that any of the enemy’s marauders would be out on such a night, and more unlikely that any regular military movement would be making on the neutral ground. He expected to meet no one on the road, but he would keep a sharp lookout in all directions as he went, and, in case of any human apparition, would take to the fields or the woods. But all the world, thought he, would stay within doors this white night.

Sliding back a part of every step he took in the snow, he passed the boundary of the Philipse lawn, and that of such part of the grounds as included, with other appurtenances, the garden north of the house. He had come, at last, to a place where the fence at his left ended and the forest began. He had, a moment before, cast a long look backward to assure himself the road was empty behind him. He now trudged on, his eyes fixed ahead.

From behind a low pine-tree, at the end of the fence, two dark figures glided up to the captain’s rear, their steps noiseless in the snow. One of them 251 caught both his forearms at the same instant, and pulled them back together, as with grips of iron. A second pair of hands placed a noose about his wrists, and quickly tightened it. Ere he could turn, his first assailant released the bound arms to the second, drew a pistol, and thrust the muzzle close to Peyton’s cheek, whereupon the second man said:

“Your pardon, captain. Come quietly, or you’re a dead man!”