“Pah! You think every man is handsome!” said the niece, curtly.
Miss Sally turned from the door, quite shocked.
“Why, Elizabeth, you know I’m the least susceptible of women!”
Old Mr. Valentine nodded sadly, as much as to say, “I know that, all too well!”
As the racing clouds now rushed over the moon, and the horsemen’s figures, having become more and more blurred, were lost in the blackness, Miss Sally closed and bolted the door. The horses were faintly heard coming to a halt, at about the junction of the branch road with the highway, then moving on again rapidly, not further towards the south, as might have been expected, but back northward, and finally towards the east. Meanwhile Elizabeth stood in the hall, her rage none the less that its object was no longer present to have it wreaked on him. Such hate, such passionate craving for revenge, had never theretofore been awakened in her. And when she realized the unlikelihood of any opportunity for satisfaction, she was exasperated to the limit of self-control.
“If you had only had some troops here!” she said to Colden.
“I know it! May the rascal perish for finding me at such a disadvantage! ’Twas my choice between denying my colors and becoming his prisoner.”
This brought back to Elizabeth’s mind the talk 97 between Colden and Peyton, which her feelings had for the time driven from her thoughts. But now a natural curiosity asserted itself.
“So you knew the fellow before?”
“I met him in ’75,” said Colden, blurting awkwardly into the explanation that he knew had to be made, though little was his stomach for it. “He was passing through New York from Boston to his home in Virginia, after he had deserted from the King’s army—”
“Deserted?” Elizabeth opened wide her eyes.
Colden briefly outlined, as far as was desirable, what he knew of Peyton’s story.
It was Miss Sally who then said:
“And he disarmed you in a duel?”
“He had practised under London fencing-masters, as he but now admitted,” replied Colden, grumpily. “He made no secret of his desertion; and in a coffee-house discussion I said it was a dastardly act. So we—fought. Since then I’ve met officers of the regiment he left. Such a thing was never known before,—the desertion of an officer of the Sixty-third,—and General Grant, its colonel, has the word of Sir Henry Clinton that this fellow shall hang if they ever catch him.”
“Then I hope my horse will carry him into their hands!” said Elizabeth, heartily. “My poor Cato! I shall never see him again!”
“We may get him back some day,” said Colden, for want of aught better to say.
“If you can do that, John Colden, and have this rebel hanged who dared treat me so—” Elizabeth paused, and her look dwelt on the major’s face.
“Well?”
“Then I think I shall almost be really in love with you!”
But Colden sighed. “A rare promise from one’s betrothed!”
“Heavens, Jack!” said Elizabeth, now diverted from the thought of her horse. “Don’t I do the best I can to love you? I’m sure I come as near loving you as loving anybody. What more can I do than that, and promising my hand? Don’t look dismal, major, I pray,—and now make haste back to New York.”
“How can I go and leave you exposed to the chance of another visit from some troop of rebels?” pleaded Colden, in a kind of peevish despair, taking up his hat from the settle.
“Oh, that fellow showed no disposition to injure me!” she answered, reassuringly. “Trust me to take care of myself.”
“But promise that if there’s any sign of danger, you will fly to New York.”
“That will depend on the circumstances. I may be safer in this house than on the road.”
“Then, at least, you will have guns fired, and also send a man to one of our outposts for help?” There was no pretence in the young man’s solicitude. Such a bride as Elizabeth Philipse was not to be found every day. The thought of losing her was poignant misery to him.
“To which one?” she asked. “The Hessian camp by Tippett’s Brook, or the Highlanders’, at Valentine’s Hill?”
“No,” said Colden, meditating. “Those may be withdrawn if the weather is bad. Send to the barrier at King’s Bridge,—but if your man meets one of our patrols or pickets on the way, so much the better. Good-by! I shall see your father to-night, and then rejoin my regiment on Staten Island.”
He took her hand, bent over it, and kissed it.
“Be careful you don’t fall in with those rebel dragoons,” said Elizabeth, lightly, as his lips dwelt on her fingers.
“No danger of that,” put in old Valentine, from the settle, for the moment ceasing to chew an imaginary cud. “They took the road to Mile Square.” The octogenarian’s hearing was better than his sight.
“I shall notify our officers below that this rebel force is out,” said Colden, “and our dragoons may cut it off somewhere. Farewell, then! I shall return for you in a week.”
“In a week,” repeated Elizabeth, indifferently.
He kissed her hand again, bowed to Miss Sally, and hastened from the hall, closing the door behind him. Once outside, he made his way to the stables, where he knew that Cuff, not having returned to Elizabeth, must still be.
“It’s little reward you give that gentleman’s devotion, Elizabeth,” said Miss Sally, when he had gone.
“Why, am I not going to give him myself? Come, aunty, don’t preach on that old topic. My parents wish me to be married to Jack Colden, and I have consented, being an obedient child,—in some things.”
“More obedient to your own whims than to anything else,” was Miss Sally’s comment.
The sound of Colden’s horse departing brought to the amiable aunt the thought of a previous departure.
“That fine young rebel captain!” said she. “If our troops take him they’ll hang him! Gracious! As if there were so many handsome young men that any could be spared! Why can’t they hang the old and ugly ones instead?”
Mr. Valentine suspended his chewing long enough to bestow on Miss Sally a look of vague suspicion.
The door, which had not been locked or bolted after Colden’s going, was suddenly flung open to admit Cuff. The negro boy had been thrown by 101 the dragoons’ visit into an almost comatose condition of fright, from which the orders of Colden had but now sufficiently restored him to enable his venturing out of the stable. He now stood trembling in fear of Elizabeth’s reproof, stammering out a wild protestation of his inability to save the horse by force, and of his inefficacious attempts to save him by prayer.
Elizabeth cut him short with the remark, intended rather for her own satisfaction than for aught else, that one thing was to be hoped,—the chance of war might pay back the impertinent rebel who had stolen the horse. She then gave orders that the hall and the east parlor be lighted up.
“For the proper reception,” she added to her aunt, “of the next handsome rebel captain who may condescend to honor us with a visit. Mr. Valentine, wait in the parlor till supper is ready. I’ll have a fire made there. Come, aunt Sally, we’ll discuss over a cup of tea the charms of your pretty rebel captain and his agreeable way of relieving ladies of their favorite horses. I’ll warrant he’ll look handsomer than ever, on the gallows, when our soldiers catch him.”
And she went blithely up the stairs, which at the first landing turned rightward to a second landing, and thence rightward again to the upper hall. The darkness was interrupted by a narrow stream of light 102 from a slightly open doorway in the north side of this upper hall. This was the doorway to her own room, and when she crossed the threshold she saw a bright blaze in the fireplace, lights in a candelabrum, cups and saucers on a table, and Molly bringing in a steaming teapot from the next room, which, being northward, was nearer the kitchen stairs. This next room, too, was lighted up. Solid wooden shutters, inside the windows of both chambers, kept the light from being seen without, and the wind from being felt within.
As Elizabeth was looking around her room, smiling affectionately on its many well-remembered and long-neglected objects, there was a sudden distant detonation. Molly looked up inquiringly, but Elizabeth directed her to place the tea things, find fresh candles, if any were left in the house, and help Cuff put them on the chandelier in the lower hall, and then get supper. As Molly left the room, Miss Sally entered it.
“Elizabeth! Oh, child! There’s firing beyond Locust Hill. It’s on the Mile Square road, Mr. Valentine says,—cavalry pistols and rangers’ muskets.”
“Mr. Valentine has a fine ear.”
“He says the rebel light horse must have met the Hessians! There ’tis again!”
“Sit down, aunt, and have a dish of tea. Ah-h! 103 This is comfortable! Delicious! Let them kill one another as they please, beyond Locust Hill; let the wind race up the Hudson and the Albany road as it likes,—we’re snugly housed!”
Williams, who had, from the upper hall, safely overheard Captain Peyton’s intrusion, and had not seen occasion for his own interference, now came in from the next room, which he had been making ready for Miss Sally, and received Elizabeth’s orders concerning the east parlor.
Meanwhile, what of Harry Peyton and his troop?
Riding up the little tree-lined road towards the highway, they saw dark forms of other riders standing at the point of junction. These were the men whom Peyton had directed to patrol the road. They now told him that, by the account of a belated farmer whom they had halted, the Hessians had turned from the highway into the Mile Square road. Peyton immediately led his men to that road. Thus, as old Valentine said, that part of the highway between the manor-house and King’s Bridge remained clear of these rebel dragoons, and Major Colden stood in no danger of meeting them on his return to New York. The major, nevertheless, did not spare his horse as he pursued his lonely way through the windy darkness. When he arrived at King’s Bridge he was glad to give his horse another rest, and to accept an invitation to a bottle and a game in the 104 tavern where the British commanding officer was quartered.
The Hessians had not gone far on the Mile Square road, when their leader called a halt and consulted with his subordinate officer. They were now near Mile Square, where the Tory captain, James De Lancey, kept a recruiting station all the year round, and Valentine’s Hill, where there was a regiment of Highlanders. Their own security was thus assured, but they might do more than come off in safety,—they might strike a parting blow at their pursuers. A plan was quickly formed. A messenger was despatched to Mile Square to request a small reinforcement. The troop then turned back towards the highway, having planned for either one of two possibilities. The first was that the rebel dragoons, not thinking the Hessians had turned into the Mile Square road, would ride on down the highway. In that case, the Hessians would follow them, having become in their turn the pursuers, and would fall upon their rear. The noise of firearms would alarm the Hessian camp by Tippett’s Brook, below, and the rebels would thus be caught between two forces. The second possibility was that the Americans would follow into the Mile Square road. When the sound of their horses soon told that this was the reality, the Hessians promptly prepared to meet it.
The force divided into two parts. The foremost 105 blocked the road, near a turning, so as to remain unseen by the approaching rebels until almost the moment of collision. The second force stayed some rods behind the first, forming in two lines, one along each side of the road. As to each force, some were armed with sabres and cavalry pistols, but most, being mounted yagers of Van Wrumb’s battalion, with rifles.
As for the little detachment of Lee’s Light Horse that was now galloping along the Mile Square road, under Harry Peyton’s command, the arms were mainly broadswords and pistols, but some of the men had rifles or light muskets.
The troop went forward at a gallop against the wind, there being just sufficient light for keen eyes to make out the road ahead. Harry Peyton was inwardly deploring the loss of time at Philipse Manor-house, and fearing that the prey would reach its covert, when suddenly the moon appeared in a cloud-rift, the troops passed a turn in the road, and there stood a line of Hessians barring the way.
Ere Peyton could give an order, came one loud, flaming, whistling discharge from that living barrier. Harry’s horse—Elizabeth Philipse’s Cato—reared, as did others of his troop. Some of the men came to a quick stop, others were borne forward by the impetus of their former speed, but soon reined in for orders. No man fell, though one groaned, and two cursed.
Harry got his horse under control, drew his broadsword with his right hand, his pistol with his left,—which held also the rein,—and ordered his men to charge, to fire at the moment of contact, then to cut, slash, and club. So the little troop, the well and the wounded alike, dashed forward.
But the line of Hessians, as soon as they had fired, turned and fled, passing between the two lines of the second force, and stopping at some further distance to reform and reload. The second force, being thus cleared by the first, wheeled quickly into the road, and formed a second barrier against Peyton’s oncoming troop.
Peyton’s men, intoxicated by the powder-smell that filled their nostrils as they passed through the smoke of the Hessians’ first volley, bore down on this second barrier with furious force. They were the best riders in the world, and many a one of them held his broadsword aloft in one hand, his pistol raised in the other, the rein loose on his horse’s neck; while those with long-barrelled weapons aimed them on the gallop.
The Hessians and Peyton’s foremost men fired at the same moment. The Hessians had not time to turn and flee, for the Americans, unchecked by this second greeting of fire, came on at headlong speed. “At ’em, boys!” yelled Peyton, discharging his pistol at a tall yager, who fell sidewise from his horse 107 with a fierce German oath. The light horse men dashed between the Hessians’ steeds, and there was hewing and hacking.
A Hessian officer struck with a sabre at Peyton’s left arm, but only knocked the pistol from his hand. Peyton then found himself threatened on the right by a trooper, and slashed at him with broadsword. The blow went home, but the sword’s end became entangled somehow with the breast bones of the victim. A yager, thinking to deprive Peyton of the sword, brought down a musket-butt heavily on it. But Peyton’s grip was firm, and the sword snapped in two, the hilt in his hand, the point in its human sheath. At that instant Peyton felt a keen smart in his left leg. It came from a second sabre blow aimed by the Hessian officer, who might have followed it with a third, but that he was now attacked elsewhere. Peyton had no sooner clapped his hand to his wounded leg than he was stunned by a blow from the rifle-butt of the yager who had previously struck the sword. Harry fell forward on the horse’s neck, which he grasped madly with both arms, still holding the broken sword in his right hand; and lapsed from a full sense of the tumult, the plunging and shrieking horses, the yelling and cursing men, the whirr and clash of swords, and the thuds of rifle-blows, into blind, red, aching, smarting half-consciousness.
When he was again aware of things, he was still clasping the horse’s neck, and was being borne alone he knew not whither. His head ached, and his left leg was at every movement a seat of the sharpest pain. He was dizzy, faint, bleeding,—and too weak to raise himself from his position. He could not hear any noise of fighting, but that might have been drowned by the singing in his ears. He tried to sit up and look around, but the effort so increased his pain and so drew on his nigh-fled strength, that he fell forward on the horse’s neck, exhausted and half-insensible. The horse, which had merely turned and run from the conflict at the moment of Peyton’s loss of sense, galloped on.
Clouds had darkened the moon in time to prevent their captain’s unintentional defection from being seen by his troops. They had, therefore, fought on against such antagonists as, in the darkness, they could keep located. The moon reappeared, and showed many of the Hessians making for the wooded hill near by, and some fleeing to the force that had re-formed further on the road. Some of the Americans charged this force, which thereupon fired a volley and fled, having the more time therefor inasmuch as the charging dragoons did not this time possess their former speed and impetus. The dragoons, in disorder and without a leader, came to a halt. Becoming aware of Peyton’s absence, they sought in 109 vain the scene of recent conflict. It was soon inferred that he had been wounded, and, therefore of no further use in the combat, had retreated to a safe resting-place. It was decided useless to follow the enemy further towards the near British posts, whence the Hessians might be reinforced,—as they would have been, had they held the ground longer. So, having had much the better of the fight, the surviving dragoons galloped back towards the post-road, expecting to come upon their captain, wounded, by the wayside, at any moment. He might, indeed, to make sure of safe refuge, ride as far towards the American lines as the wound he must have received would allow him to do.
Such were the doings, on the windy night, beyond Locust Hill, while Elizabeth Philipse and her aunt sat drinking tea by candle-light before a sputtering wood fire. Elizabeth having set the example, the others in the house went about their business, despite the firing so plainly heard. Black Sam had, after Elizabeth’s arrival, returned from the orchard, whither he had gone late in the day, lest he might attract the attention of some dodging whale-boat or skulking Whig to the few remaining apples. He had been let in at a rear door by Williams, who had repressed him during the visit of the American dragoons,—for Sam was a sturdy, bold fellow, of different kidney from the dapper, citified Cuff. At 110 Williams’s order he had made a roaring fire in the east parlor, to the great comfort of old Mr. Valentine, and was now putting the dining-room into a similar state of warmth and light. Williams was setting out provisions for Molly presently to cook; and the maid herself was, with Cuff’s assistance, replenishing the hall chandelier with fresh candles.
The sound of firing had put Elizabeth’s black boy into a tremulous and white-eyed state. When Molly, who stood on the settle while he handed the candles up to her, assured him that the firing was t’other side of Locust Hill, that the bullets would not penetrate the mahogany door, and that anyhow only one bullet in a hundred ever hit any one, Cuff affrightedly observed ’twas just that one bullet he was afraid of; and when, at the third discharge, Molly dropped a candle on his woolly head, he fell prostrate, howling that he was shot. Molly convinced him after awhile that he was alive, but he averred he had actually had a glimpse of the harps and the golden streets, though the prospect of soon possessing them had rather appalled him, as indeed it does many good people who are so sure of heaven and so fond of it. He had been reassured but a short time, when he had new cause for terror. Again a horse was heard galloping up to the house. It stopped before the door and gave a loud whinny.
Molly exchanged with Cuff a look of mingled wonder, delight, and doubt; then ran and opened the front door.
“Yes!” she cried. “It is! It’s Miss Elizabeth’s horse! It’s Cato!”
Cuff ran to the threshold in great joy, but suddenly stopped short.
“Dey’s a soldier on hees back,” he whispered.
So Molly had noticed,—but a soldier who made no demonstration, a soldier who leaned forward on the horse’s neck and clutched its mane, holding at the same time in one hand a broken sword, and who tried to sit up, but only emitted a groan of pain.
“He’s wounded, that’s it,” said Molly. “Go and help the poor soldier in, Cuff. Don’t you see he’s injured? He can’t hurt you.”
Molly enforced her commands with such physical persuasions that Cuff, ere he well knew what he was about, was helping Peyton from the horse. The captain, revived by a supreme effort, leaned on the boy’s shoulder and came limping and lurching across the porch into the hall. Molly then went to his assistance, and with this additional aid he reached the settle, on which he dropped, weak, pale, and panting. He took a sitting posture, gasped his thanks to Molly, and, noticing the blood from his leg wound, called damnation on the Hessian officer’s sword. Presently he asked for a drink of water.
At Molly’s bidding the negro boy hastened for 112 water, and also to inform his mistress of the arrival. Elizabeth, hearing the news, rose with an exclamation; but, taking thought, sat down again, and, with a pretence of composure, finished her cup of tea. Cuff returned with a glass of water to the hall, where Molly was listening to Peyton’s objurgations on his condition. The captain took the glass eagerly, and was about to drink, when a footstep was heard on the stairs. He turned his head and saw Elizabeth.
“Here’s my respects, madam,” quoth he, and drank off the water.
Elizabeth came down-stairs and took a position where she could look Peyton well over. He watched her with some wonderment. When she was quite ready she spoke:
“So, it is, indeed, the man who stole my horse.”
“Pardon. I think your horse has stolen me! It made me an intruder here quite against my will, I assure you.”
“You will doubtless not honor us by remaining?” There was more seriousness of curiosity in this question than Elizabeth betrayed or Peyton perceived.
“What can I do? I can neither ride nor walk.”
“But your men will probably come for you?”
“I don’t think any saw the horse bear me from the fight. The field was in smoke and darkness. My troops must have pursued the enemy. They’ll 113 think me killed or made prisoner. If they return this way, however, I can have them stop and take me along.”
“Then you expect that, in repayment of your treatment of me awhile ago—” Elizabeth paused.
“Madam, you should allow for the exigencies of war! Yet, if you wish to turn me out—”
Elizabeth interrupted him:
“So it is true that, if you fell into the hands of the British, they would hang you?”
“Doubtless! But you shouldn’t blame me for what they’d do. And how did you know?”
“Help this gentleman into the east parlor,” said Elizabeth, abruptly, to Cuff.
“Ah!” cried Peyton, his face lighting up with quick gratitude. “Madam, you then make me your guest?” He thrust forward his head, forgetful of his condition.
“My guest?” rang out Elizabeth’s voice in answer. “You insolent rebel, I intend to hand you over to the British!”
There was a brief silence. Each gazed at the other.
“You will not—do that?” said Peyton, in a voice little above a whisper.
“Wait and see!” And she stood regarding him with elation.
He stared at her in blank consternation.
Again, the sound of the trample of many horses.
“Ah!” cried Peyton, joyfully. “My men returning!”
He rose to go to the door, but his wounded leg gave way, and he staggered to the staircase, and leaned against the balustrade.
Elizabeth’s look of gratification faded. She ran to the door, fastened it with bolt and key, and stood with her back against it.
The sound, first distant as if in the Mile Square road, was now manifestly in the highway. Would it come southward, towards the house, or go northward, decreasing?
“They are my men!” cried Peyton to Cuff. “Call them! They’ll pass without knowing I am here. Call them, I say! Quick! They’ll be out of hearing.”
“Silence!” said Elizabeth to Cuff, in a low tone, and stood listening.
Peyton made another attempt to move, but realized his inability. ’Twas all he could do to support himself against the balustrade.
“My God, they’ve gone by!” he cried. “They’ll return to our lines, leaving me behind.” And he shouted, “Carrington!”
The voice rang for a moment in the remoteness of the hall above. Then complete silence within. All in the hall remained motionless, listening. The sound of the horses came fainter and fainter.
“Carrington! Help! I’m in the manor-house,—a prisoner!”
A look of despair came over his face. On Elizabeth’s the suspense gave way to a smile of triumph.
The sound of the horses died away.
Peyton staggered back to the settle and sank down on it, exhausted. Elizabeth, hearing black Sam moving about in the dining-room, which was directly north of the hall, bade Molly summon him. When he appeared, she ordered him and Cuff to carry the settle, with the wounded man on it, into the east parlor, and to place the man on the sofa there. She then told Molly to hasten the supper, and to send Williams to her up-stairs, and thereupon rejoined her excited aunt above. When Williams attended her, she gave him commands regarding the prisoner.
Peyton was thus carried through the deep doorway in the south side of the hall into the east parlor, which was now exceedingly habitable with fire roaring and candles lighted. In the east and south sides of this richly ornamented room were deeply embrasured windows, with low seats. In the west side was a mahogany door opening from the old or south hall. In the north side, which was adorned with wooden pillars and other carved woodwork, was 117 the door through which Peyton had been carried; west of that, the decorated chimney-breast with its English mantel and fireplace, and further west a pair of doors opening from a closet, whence a winding staircase descended cellarward. The ceiling was rich with fanciful arabesque woodwork. Set in the chimney-breast, over the mantel, was an oblong mirror. The wainscoting, pillars, and other woodwork were of a creamy white. But Peyton had no eye for details at the moment. He noticed only that his entrance disturbed the slumbers of the old gentleman—Matthias Valentine—who had been sleeping in a great armchair by the fire, and who now blinked in wonderment.
The negroes put down the settle and lifted Peyton to a sofa that stood against the western side of the room, between a spinet and the northern wall. At Peyton’s pantomimic request they then moved the sofa to a place near the fire, and then, taking the settle along, marched out of the room, back to the hall, closing the door as they went.
Peyton, too pain-racked and exhausted to speak, lay back on the sofa, with closed eyes. Old Valentine stared at him a few moments; then, curious both as to this unexpected advent and as to the proximity of supper, rose and hobbled from the parlor and across the hall to the dining-room. For some time Peyton was left alone. He opened his eyes, studied 118 the flying figures on the ceiling, the portraits on the walls, the carpet,—Philipse Manor-house, like the best English houses of the time, had carpet on its floors,—the carving of the mantel, the clock and candelabrum thereupon, the crossed rapiers thereabove, the curves of the imported furniture. His twinges and aches were so many and so diverse that he made no attempt to locate them separately. He could feel that the left leg of his breeches was soaked with blood.
Finally the door opened, and in came Williams and Cuff, the former with shears and bands of linen, the latter with a basin of water. Williams, whom Peyton had not before seen, scrutinized him critically, and forthwith proceeded to expose, examine, wash, and bind up the wounded leg, while Cuff stood by and played the rôle of surgeon’s assistant. Peyton speedily perceived on the steward’s part a reliable acquaintance with the art of dressing cuts, and therefore submitted without a word to his operations. Williams was equally silent, breaking his reticence only now and then to utter some monosyllabic command to Cuff.
When the wound was dressed, Williams put the patient’s disturbed attire to rights, and adjusted his hair. Peyton, with a feeling of some relief, made to stretch the wounded leg, but a sharp twinge cut the movement short.
“You should make a good surgeon,” Peyton said at last, “you tie so damnably tight a bandage.”
“I’ve bound up many a wound, sir,” said Williams; “and some far worse than yours. ’Tis not a dangerous cut, yours, though ’twill be irritating while it lasts. You won’t walk for a day or two.”
“It’s remarkable your mistress has so much trouble taken with me, when she intends to deliver me to the British.”
Peyton had inferred the steward’s place in the house, from his appearance and manner.
“Why, sir,” said Williams, “we couldn’t have you bleeding over the floor and furniture. Besides, I suppose she wants to hand you over in good condition.”
“I see! No bedraggled remnant of a man, but a complete, clean, and comfortable candidate for Cunningham’s gallows!” Peyton here forgot his wound and attempted to sit upright, but quickly fell back with a grimace and a groan.
“Better lie still, sir,” counselled Williams, sagely. “If you need any one, you are to call Cuff. He will be in waiting in that hall, sir.” And the steward pointed towards the east hall. “There will be no use trying to get away. I doubt if you could walk half across the room without fainting. And if you could get out of the house, you’d find black Sam on guard, with his duck-gun,—and Sam doesn’t miss once in 120 a hundred times with that duck-gun. Bring those things, Cuff.” Williams indicated Peyton’s hat, remnant of sword, and scabbard, which had been placed on the armchair by the fireside.
“Leave my sword!” commanded Peyton.
“Can’t, sir!” said Williams, affably. “Miss Elizabeth’s orders were to take it away.”
Williams thereupon went from the room, crossed the east hall, and entered the dining-room, to report to Elizabeth, who now sat at supper with Miss Sally and Mr. Valentine.
Cuff, with basin of water in one hand, took up the hat, sword, and scabbard, with the other.
“Miss Elizabeth!” mused Peyton. “Queen Elizabeth, I should say, in this house. Gad, to be a girl’s prisoner, tied down to a sofa by so small a cut!” Hereupon he addressed Cuff, who was about to depart: “Where is your mistress?”
“In the dining-room, eating supper.”
“And Mr. Colden, whom I saw in that hall about an hour ago, when I bought the horse?”
“Major Colden rode back to New York.”
“Major Colden! Major of what?”
“New Juzzey Vollingteers, sir.”
“What? Then he is in the King’s service, after all? And when I was here with my troops he said he was neutral. I’ll never take a Tory’s word again.”
“Am you like to hab de chance, sir?” queried Cuff, with a grin.
“What! You taunt me with my situation?” And Harry’s head shot up from the sofa as he made to rise and chastise the boy; but he could not stand on his leg, and so remained sitting, propped on his right arm, panting and glaring at the negro.
Cuff, whose whiteness of teeth had shown in his moment of mirth, now displayed much whiteness of eye in his alarm at Peyton’s movement, and glided to the door. As he went out to the hall, he passed Molly, who was coming into the parlor with a bowl of broth.
“Hah!” ejaculated Peyton as she came towards him. “They would feed the animal for the slaughter, eh?”
Molly curtseyed.
“Please, sir, it wa’n’t they sent this. I brought it of my own accord, sir, though with Miss Elizabeth’s permission.”
“Oh! so Miss Elizabeth did give her permission, then?”
“Yes, sir. At least, she said it didn’t matter, if I wished to.”
“And you did wish to? Well, you’re a good girl, and I thank you.”
Whereupon Peyton took the bowl and sipped of the broth with relish.
“Thank you, sir,” said Molly, who then moved a small light chair from its place by the wall to a spot beside the sofa and within Peyton’s reach. “You can set the bowl on this,” she added. “I must go back to the kitchen.” And, after another curtsey, she was gone.
The broth revived Peyton, and with all his pain and fatigue he had some sense of comfort. The handsome, well warmed, well lighted parlor, so richly furnished, so well protected from the wind and weather by the solid shutters outside its four small-paned windows, was certainly a snug corner of the world. So far seemed all this from stress and war, that Peyton lost his strong realization of the fate that Elizabeth’s threat promised him. Appreciation of his surroundings drove away other thoughts and feelings. That he should be taken and hanged was an idea so remote from his present situation, it seemed rather like a dream than an imminent reality. There surely would be a way of his getting hence in safety. And he imbibed mouthful after mouthful of the warm broth.
Presently old Mr. Valentine reappeared, from the east hall, looking none the less comfortable for the supper he had eaten. A long pipe was in his hand, and, that he might absorb smoke and liquor at the same time, he had brought with him from the table, where the two ladies remained, a vast mug of hot 123 rum punch of Williams’s brewing. He now set the mug on the mantel, lighted his pipe with a brand from the fire, repossessed himself of the mug, and sat down in the armchair, with a sigh of huge satisfaction. It mattered not that this was the parlor of Philipse Manor-house,—for Mr. Valentine, in his innocent way, indulged himself freely in the privileges and presumptions of old age.
Peyton, after staring for some time with curiosity at the smoky old gentleman, who rapidly grew smokier, at last raised the bowl of broth for a last gulp, saying, cheerily:
“To your very good health, sir!”
“Thank you, sir!” said the old man, complacently, not making any movement to reciprocate.
“What! won’t you drink to mine?”
“’Twould be a waste of words to drink the health of a man that’s going to be hanged,” replied Valentine, who at supper had heard the ladies discuss Peyton’s intended fate. He thereupon sent a cloud of smoke ceiling-ward for the flying cherubs to rest on.
“The devil! You are economical!”
“Of words, maybe, not of liquor.” The octogenarian quaffed deeply from the mug. “They say hanging is an easy death,” he went on, being in loquacious mood. “I never saw but one man hanged. He didn’t seem to enjoy it.” Mr. Valentine puffed slowly, inwardly dwelling on the recollection.