Part 3 (1/2)

”Of what monster, John Drogue?”

”Of that red monster that is surely, surely creeping northward to surprise and rend us all,” said I in a low voice. ”And so I shall retire to question my secret soul, and arm it cap-a-pie as G.o.d directs.”

She was looking at me intently. After a silence she said:

”I do love you; and Billy Alexander; and all gay and brave young men whose unstained swords hedge the women of County Tryon from this same red monster that you mention.” And watched me to see how I swallowed this.

I said warily: ”Surely, Claudia, all women command our swords ... no matter _which cause we espouse_.”

”Jack!”

”I hear you, Claudia.”

But, ”Oh, my G.o.d!” she breathed; and put her hands to her face. A moment she stood so, then, eyes still covered by one hand, extended the other to me. I kissed it lightly; then kissed it again.

”Do you leave us, Jack?”

I understood.

”It is you who leave me, Claudia.”

She, too, understood. It was my first confession that all was not right betwixt my conscience and my King. For that was the only thing I was certain about concerning her: she never betrayed a confidence, whatever else she did. And so I made plain to her where my heart and honour lay--not with the King's men in this coming struggle--but with my own people.

I think she knew, too, that I had never before confessed as much to any living soul, for she took her other hand from her eyes and looked at me as though something had happened in which she took a sorrowful pride.

Then I kissed her hand for the third time, and let it free. And, going:

”G.o.d be with you,” she said with a slight smile; ”you are my dear friend, John Drogue.”

At the Hall porch she turned, the mischief glimmering in her eyes: ”--And so is Billy Alexander,” quoth she.

So she went into the darkened Hall.

It was many months before I saw our Sacharissa again--not until Major Andre had made many another verse for many another inamorata, and his soldier-actors had played more than one of his farces in besieged Boston to the loud orchestra of His Excellency's rebel cannon.

CHAPTER III

THE POT BOILS

Sir William died on the 24th of June in the year 1774; which was the twentieth year of my life.

On the day after he was buried in Saint John's Church in Johnstown, which he had built, I left the Hall for Fonda's Bush, which was a wilderness and which lay some nine miles distant in the Mohawk country, along the little river called Kennyetto.

I speak of Fonda's Bush as a wilderness; but it was not entirely so, because already old Henry Stoner, the trapper who wore two gold rings in his ears, had built him a house near the Kennyetto and had taken up his abode there with his stalwart and handsome sons, Nicholas and John, and a little daughter, Barbara.