"And if I stay, you"—

"Will go alone," I said.

He caught my hand and wrung it heartily.

"You are a brave man, Mr. Stewart," he exclaimed. "If I have shown any hesitation, 't was on your account, not on my own. I am ready to go with you," and as he spoke, he drew a brace of pistols from beneath his coat and laid them on the table by the fireplace.

"Wait one moment," I said, and hurrying to my aunt's room, I wrote a short note telling her of the trouble I had discovered and where Long and I were going, so that, if we did not return, she would know what had happened. Folding and sealing it, I wrote on the outside, "To be delivered at once to Mrs. Stewart," left it on the table, knowing that no one would enter the room till morning, and hurried back to rejoin Long. We were off without further words, and were soon well on our way.

It was a clear, cool, summer night, with the breeze just stirring in the trees and keeping up a faint, unceasing whispering among the leaves. The moon had risen some hours before, and sailed upward through a cloudless sky. Even under the trees it was not wholly dark, for the moon's light filtered through here and there, making a quaint patchwork on the ground, and filling the air with a peculiar iridescence which transformed the ragged trunks of the sycamores into fantastic hobgoblins. All about us rose the croaking of the frogs, dominating all the other noises of the night, and uniting in one mighty chorus in the marshes along the river. An owl was hooting from a distant tree, and the hum of innumerable insects sounded on every side. Here and there a glittering, dew-spangled cobweb stretched across our path, a barrier of silver, and required more than ordinary resolution to be brushed aside. As we turned nearer to the river, the ground grew softer and the underbrush more thick, and I knew that we had reached the swamp.

Then, in a moment, it seemed to me that I could hear some faint, monotonous singsong rising above all the rest. At first I thought it was the croaking of a monster frog, but as we plodded on and the sound grew more distinct, I knew it could not be that. At last, in sheer perplexity, I stopped and motioned Long to listen.

"Do you hear it?" I asked. "Do you know what it is?"

"Yes, I have heard it for the last ten minutes, Mr. Stewart," he answered quietly. "It is old Polete preaching to the niggers. I have often heard their so-called witch men preach. It is always in a singsong just like that."

As we drew nearer, I perceived that this was true, for I could catch the tones of the speaker's voice, and in a few minutes could distinguish his words. Some years before, when the river had been in flood, its current had been thrown against this bank by a landslide on the other side, and had washed away trees and underbrush for some distance. The underbrush had soon sprung up again, but the clearing still remained, and as we stopped in the shadow of the trees and looked across it, we saw a singular sight. Negroes to the number of at least a hundred and fifty were gathered about a pile of logs on which Polete was mounted. He was shouting in a monotone, his voice rising and falling in regular cadence, his eyes closed, his head tilted back, his face turned toward the moon, whose light silvered his hair and beard and gave a certain majesty to his appearance. His hearers were seemingly much affected, and interrupted him from time to time with shouts and groans and loud amens.

"Dis is d' promise' lan'!" cried old Polete, waving his arms above his head in a wild ecstasy. "All we hab t' do is t' raise up an' take it from ouh 'pressahs. Ef we stays hyah slaves, it's ouh own fault. Now's d' 'pinted time. D' French is ma'chin' obah d' mountings t' holp us. Dee'll drib d' English into d' sea, and wese t' hab ouh freedom,—ouh freedom an' plenty lan' t' lib on."

"Dat's it," shouted some one, "an' we gwine t' holp, suah!"

The negroes were so intent upon their speaker that they did not perceive us until we were right among them, and even then for a few minutes, as we forced our way through the mob, no one knew us.

"It's Mas' Tom!" yelled one big fellow, as my hat was knocked from my head. And, as if by instinct, they crowded back on either side, and a path was opened before us to the pile of logs where Polete stood. He gaped at us amazedly as we clambered up toward him, and I saw that he was licking his lips convulsively. A yell from the crowd greeted us as we appeared beside him,—a menacing yell, which died away into a low growling, and foretold an approaching storm.

"Now, boys," I cried, "I want you to listen to me for a minute. That is a lie about the French coming over the mountains,—every word of it. If Polete here, who, you know, is only a laborer like most of you, says he has seen them coming in a vision, why he's simply lying to you, or he doesn't know what he's talking about. There are not three hundred Frenchmen the other side of the mountains, in the first place, and it will be winter before they can get any more there. So if you fight, you will have to fight alone, and you can guess how much chance of success you have. You know the penalty for insurrection. It's death, and not an easy death, either,—death by fire! If you go ahead with this thing, no power on earth can save every one of you from the stake."

"It's a lie!" yelled Polete. "I did hab d' vision. I did see d' French a-comin'—millions o' dem—all a-ma'chin' t'rough d' forest. Dee's almost hyah. Dee want us t' holp."

A hoarse yell interrupted him, and I saw that something must be done.

"Wait a minute, boys," I cried. "Let me ask Polete a question. You say you have seen the French marching, Polete?"

He nodded sullenly.

"What was the color of their uniforms?"

He hesitated a moment, but saw he must answer.

"Dee was all colors," he said. "Red, blue, green,—all colors."

I saw that my moment of triumph was at hand.

"Now, boys," I cried, holding up my hand so that all might be quiet and hear my words. "You may guess how much value there is in Polete's visions. He says he has seen the French army marching, and he has just told me that their uniforms are all colors,—red, blue, green, and so on. Now, if he has seen the army, he ought to know the color of the uniforms, ought he not?"

"Yes, yes," yelled the mob.

"Well, boys," I continued, "the French wear only one color uniform, and that color is just the one which Polete has not mentioned—white. No Frenchman goes to war except in a white uniform."

They were all silent for a moment, and I saw them eyeing Polete distrustfully.

But he was foaming at the mouth with fury.

"A lie!" he screamed. "A lie, same's de uddah. Don' yo' see what we mus' do? Kill 'em! Kill 'em, an' nobody else'll evah know!"

That low growling which I had heard before again ran through the crowd. I must play my last card.

"You fools!" I cried, "do you suppose we are the only ones who know? If so much as a hair of our heads is touched, if we are not back among our friends safe and sound when morning comes, every dog among you will yelp his life out with a circle of fire about him!"

They were whining now, and I knew I had them conquered.

"I came here to-night to save you," I went on, after a moment. "Return now quietly to your quarters, and nothing more will be said about this gathering. Put out of your minds once for all the hope that the French will help you, for it is a lie. And let this be the last time you hold a meeting here, or I will not answer for the consequences."

I waved them away with my hand, and they slunk off by twos and threes until all of them had disappeared in the shadow of the wood.

"And now, what shall we do with this cur?" asked Long, in a low voice, at my elbow. I turned and saw that he had old Polete gripped by the collar. "He tried to run away," he added, "but I thought you might have something to say to him."

Polete was as near collapse as a man could be and yet be conscious. He was trembling like a leaf, his eyes were bloodshot, and his lower jaw was working convulsively. He turned an imploring gaze on me, and tried to speak, but could not.

"Polete," I said sternly, "I suppose you know that if this night's work gets out, as it is certain to do sooner or later, no power on earth can save your life?"

"Yes, massa," he muttered, and looked about him wildly, as though he already saw the flames at his feet.

"Well, Polete," I went on, "after the way you have acted to-night, I see no reason why I should try to save you. You certainly did all you could to get me killed."

"Yes, massa," he said again, and would have fallen had not Long held him upright by the collar.

I waited a moment, for I thought he was going to faint, but he opened his eyes again and fixed them on me.

"Now listen," I went on, when he appeared able to understand me. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to give you a chance for your life,—not a very big chance, perhaps, but a great deal better one than you would have here."

"Yes, massa," he said a third time, and there was a gleam of hope in his face.

"I'm going to let you go," I concluded. "I'd advise you to follow the river till you get beyond the settlements, and then try for Pennsylvania. I promise you there'll be no pursuit, but if you ever show your face around here again, you're as good as dead."

Before I had finished, he had fallen to his knees and bowed his head upon my feet, with a peculiar reverence,—a relic, I suppose, of his life in Africa. He was blubbering like a baby when he looked up at me.

"I'll nevah f'git yeh, Mas' Tom," he said. "I'll nevah f'git yeh."

"That'll do, uncle," and I caught him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. "I don't want to see you killed, but you'd better get away from here as fast as you can, and drop this witch man business for good and all. Here's two shillings. They'll get you something to eat when you get to Pennsylvania, but you'd better skirmish along in the woods the best you can till then, or you'll be jerked up for a runaway."

He murmured some inarticulate words,—of gratitude, perhaps,—and slid down from the pile of logs. We watched him until he plunged into the woods to the south of the clearing, and then started back toward the house. I was busy with my own thoughts as we went, and Long was also silent, so that scarcely a word passed between us until we reached the steps.

"Sit down a minute, Long," I said, as he started back to his quarters. "I don't believe we'll have any more trouble with those fellows, but perhaps it would be well to watch them."

"Trust me for that, sir," he answered. "I'll see to it that there are no more meetings of that kind. With Polete away, there is little danger. The only question is whether he will stay away."

"I think he will," and I looked out over the river thoughtfully. "He seemed to understand the danger he was in. If he returns, you will have to deliver him up to the authorities at once, of course."

"Well," said Long, "I'm not a bloodthirsty man, sir, as perhaps you know, but I think we'd be safer if he were dead. Still, we'll be safe enough anyway, now the niggers know their plot is discovered. But we were in a ticklish place there for a while this evening."

"Yes," I answered, with a smile. "It was not so easy as I had expected. I want to thank you, Long, for going with me. It was a service on your part which showed you have the interest of the place at heart, and are not afraid of danger."

"That's all right, sir," he said awkwardly. "Good-night."

"Wait till I get your pistols," I said. "You left them in the hall, you know."

The moonlight was streaming through the open window, and as I stepped into the hall, I rubbed my eyes, for I thought I must be dreaming. There in a great chair before the fireplace sat Colonel Washington. His head had fallen back, his eyes were closed, and from his deep and regular breathing I knew that he was sleeping. Marveling greatly at his presence here at this hour, I tiptoed around him, got Long's pistols, and took them out to him. Then I lighted my pipe and sat down in a chair opposite the sleeper, and waited for him to awake. I had not long to wait. Whether from my eyes on his face, or some other cause, he stirred uneasily, opened his eyes, and sat suddenly bolt upright.

"Why, Tom," he cried, as he saw me, "I must have been asleep."

"So you have," I said, shaking hands with him, and pressing him back into the chair, from which he would have risen. "But what fortunate chance has brought you here?"

"The most fortunate in the world!" he cried, his eyes agleam. "You know I told you that the governor and House of Burgesses would not bear quietly the project to leave our frontier open to the enemy. Well, read this," and he drew from his pocket a most formidable looking paper. I took it with a trembling hand and carried it to the window, but the moon was almost set, and I could not decipher it.

"What is it?" I asked, quivering with impatience.

"Here, give it to me," he said, with a light laugh, which reminded me of the night I had seen him first in the governor's palace at Williamsburg. "The House of Burgesses has just met. They ordered that a regiment of a thousand men be raised to protect the frontier in addition to those already in the field, and voted L20,000 for the defense of the colony."

"And that is your commission!" I cried. "Is it not so?"

"Yes," he said, scarce less excited than myself. "'Tis my commission as commander-in-chief of all the Virginia forces."

I wrung his hand with joy unutterable. At last this man, who had done so much, was to know something beside disappointment and discouragement.

"But you do not ask how you are concerned in all this," he continued, smiling into my face, "or why I rode over myself to bring the news to you. 'Tis because I set out to-morrow at daybreak for Winchester to take command, and I wish you to go with me, Tom, as aide-de-camp, with the rank of captain."



CHAPTER XXIV

A WARNING FROM THE FOREST

It was at Winchester that Colonel Washington established his headquarters, maintaining a detachment at Fort Cumberland sufficient to repel any attack the Indians were like to make against it, and to cut off such of their war parties as ventured east of it. From Winchester he was able more easily to keep in touch with all parts of the frontier, and with the string of blockhouses which had been built years before as a gathering-place for the settlers in the event of Indian incursions. By the first of September his arrangements had been completed, but long before that time it was evident the task was to be no easy one.

Already, from the high passes of the Alleghenies, war parties of Delawares and Shawanoes had descended, sweeping down upon the frontier families like a devastating whirlwind, and butchering men, women, and children with impartial fury. The unbounded forest, which covered hill and valley with a curtain of unbroken foliage, afforded a thousand lurking-places, and it was well-nigh impossible for an armed force to get within striking distance of the marauders. So, almost daily, stories of horrible cruelty came to the fort, plunging the commander into an agony of rage and dejection at his very impotence. The fort was soon crowded with refugees,—wives bewailing their husbands, husbands swearing to avenge their wives, parents lamenting their children, children of a sudden made orphans,—and from north and south, scores of hard-featured, steel-eyed men came to us, their rifles in their hands, to offer their services, and after a time these came to be one of the most valuable portions of our force.

Ah, the stories they told us! Tragedies such as that which Spiltdorph and I had come upon had been repeated scores of times. The settler who had left his cabin at daybreak in search of game, or to carry his furs to the nearest post, returned at sundown to find only a smoking heap of ashes where his home had been, and among them the charred and mutilated bodies of his wife and children. Horror succeeded horror, and the climax came one day when we were passing a little schoolhouse some miles below the fort, in the midst of a district well populated. Wondering at the unwonted silence, we dismounted, opened the door, and looked within. The master lay upon the platform with his pupils around him, all dead and newly scalped. The savages had passed that way not half an hour before.

And to add to the trials of the commander, his troops, hastily got together, were most of them impatient of restraint or discipline, and with no knowledge of warfare, while the governor and the House of Burgesses demanded that he undertake impossibilities. It was a dreary, trying, thankless task.

"They expect me to perform miracles," he said to me bitterly one day. "How am I to protect a frontier four hundred miles in length with five or six hundred effective men, against an enemy who knows every foot of the ground, and who can find a hiding-place at every step?"

Only by the sternest measures could many of the levies be brought to the fort, and one man—a captain, God save the mark!—sent word that he and his company could not come because their corn had not yet been got in. Yet, in spite of all these drawbacks, we did accomplish something. There were a few of the Iroquois who yet remained our friends, and the general spared no effort to retain their goodwill, for their services were invaluable. With a lofty contempt for the Delawares and Shawanoes, whom they had one time subjugated and compelled to assume the name of women, they roamed the forest for miles around, and more than once enabled us to ambush one of the war parties and send it howling back to the Muskingum, where there was great weeping and wailing in the lodges upon its return. But it was fruitless work, for the Indians, driven back for the moment, returned with augmented fury, and again drenched the frontier in the blood of the colonists.

We realized one and all that nothing we could do would turn the tide of war permanently from our borders and render the frontier safe until the French had been driven from Fort Duquesne. For it was they who urged the Indians on, supplying them with guns and ammunition, and rewarding them with rum when they returned to the fort laden with English scalps. An expedition against the French stronghold was for the present out of the question, and we could only bite our nails and curse, waiting for another night when we might sally forth and fall upon one of the war parties. But the few Indians we killed seemed a pitiful atonement for the mangled bodies scattered along the frontier and the hundreds of homes of which there remained nothing but blackened ruins. As the weeks passed and the Indians saw our impotence, they grew bolder, slipped through the chain of blockhouses, and ravaged the country east of us, disappearing into the woods as if by magic at the first alarm.

The month of August and the first portion of September wore away in this dreary manner, and it was perhaps a week later that Colonel Washington sent me to Frederick to make arrangements for some supplies. The distance, which was a scant fifty miles, was over a well-traveled road, and through a district so well protected that the Indians had not dared to visit it; so I rode out of the fort one morning, taking with me only my negro boy Sam, whom I had selected for my servant since the day he had warned me against Polete. I remember that the day was very warm, and that there was no air stirring, so that we pushed forward with indifferent speed. At noon we reached a farmhouse owned by John Evans, where we remained until the heat had somewhat moderated, and set forward again about four o'clock in the afternoon.

We had ridden for near an hour, and I was deep in my own thoughts, when I heard something breaking its way through the underbrush, and the next moment my horse shied violently as a negro stumbled blindly into the road and collapsed into a heap before he had taken half a dozen steps along it. I reined up sharply, and as I did so, heard Sam give a shrill cry of alarm.

"Shut up, boy," I cried, "and get off and see what ails the man. He can't hurt you."

But Sam sat in his saddle clutching at his horse's neck, his face spotted with terror as I had seen it once before.

"What is it, Sam?" I asked impatiently.

"Good Gawd, Mas' Tom," he cried, his teeth chattering together and cutting off his words queerly, "don' yo' see who 'tis? Don' yo' know him?"

"Know him? No, of course not," I answered sharply. "Who is he?"

"Polete," gasped Sam. "Polete, come back aftah me," and seemed incapable of another word.

In an instant I was off my horse and kneeling in the road beside the fallen man. Not till then did I believe it was Polete. From a great gash in the side of his head the blood had soaked into his hair and dried over his face. His shirt was stained, apparently from a wound in his breast, but most horrible of all was a circular, reeking spot on the crown of his head from which the scalp had been stripped. It needed no second glance to tell me that Polete had been in the hands of the Indians.

By this time Sam had partially recovered his wits, and being convinced that it was Polete in the flesh, not in the spirit, brought some water from a spring at the roadside. I bathed Polete's head as well as I could, and washed the blood from his face. Tearing open his shirt, I saw that blood was slowly welling from an ugly wound in his breast. He opened his eyes after a moment, and stared vacantly up into my face.

"Debbils," he moaned, "debbils, t' kill a po' ole man. Ain't I said I done gwine t' lib wid yo'? Kain't trabble fas' 'nough fo' yo'? Don' shoot, oh, don' shoot! Ah!"

He dropped back again into the road with a groan, and tossed from side to side. I thought he was dying, but when I dashed more water in his face, he opened his eyes again. This time he seemed to know me.

"Is it Mas' Tom?" he gasped. "Mas' Tom what let me go?"

"Yes, Polete," I answered gently, "it's Master Tom."

"Whar am I?" he asked faintly. "Have dee got me 'gin? Dee gwine to buhn me?"

"No, no," I said. "Nobody 's going to harm you, Polete. Where have you been all this time?"

"In d' woods," he whispered, "hidin' in d' swamps, an' skulkin' long aftah night. Could n' nevah sleep, Mas' Tom. When I went t' sleep, seemed laike d' dogs was right aftah me."

His head fell back again, and a rush of blood in his throat almost choked him.

"Wish I'd stayed at d' plantation, Mas' Tom," he whispered. "Nothin' could n' been no wo'se 'n what I went frough. Kep' 'long d' ribbah, laike yo' said, but could n' git nothin' t' eat only berries growin' in d' woods. Got mighty weak, 'n' den las' night met d' Injuns."

"Last night!" I cried. "Where, Polete?"

"Obah dah 'long d' ribbah," he answered faintly. "Dee gib me some'n' t' eat, an' I frought maybe dee'd take me 'long, but dis mornin' dee had a big powwow, an' dee shot me an' knock me in d' haid. Seems laike dee 's gwine t' buhn a big plantation t'-night."

"A big plantation, Polete?" I asked. "Where? Tell me—oh, you must tell me!"

But his head had fallen back, and his eyes were closed. There was another burst of blood from his nose and mouth. I threw water over his face, slapped his hands, and shouted into his ears, but to no avail. Sam brought me another hatful of water, but his hands trembled so that when he set it down, he spilled half of it. I dashed what was left over the dying man, but his breathing grew slow and slower, and still his eyes were closed. I trembled to think what would happen should I never learn where the Indians were going, if Polete should never open his eyes again to tell me. But he did, at last,—oh, how long it seemed!—he did, and gazed up at me with a little smile.

"Reckon it's all obah wid ole Polete, Mas' Tom," he whispered.

"Where is this plantation, Polete?" I asked. "The plantation the Indians are going to attack. Quick, tell me."

He looked at me a moment longer before answering.

"D' plantation? Obah dah, eight, ten mile, neah d' ribbah," and he made a faint little motion northward with his hand. The motion, slight as it was, brought on another hemorrhage. His eyes looked up into mine for a moment longer, and then, even as I gazed at them, grew fixed and glazed. Old Polete was dead.

We laid him by the side of the road and rolled two or three logs over him. More we could not do, for every moment was precious.

"Sam," I said quickly, as we finished our task, "you must ride to the fort as fast as your horse will carry you. Tell Colonel Washington that I sent you, and that the Indians are going to attack some big plantation on the river eight or ten miles north of here. Tell him that I have gone on to warn them. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sah," he gasped.

"Well, don't you forget a word of it," I said sternly. "You can reach the fort easily by nine o'clock to-night. Now, be off."

He hesitated a moment.

"What is it?" I cried. "You are not afraid, boy?"

He rubbed his eyes and began to whimper.

"Not fo' myself, Mas' Tom," he said. "But yo' gwine t' ride right into d' Injuns. Dee'll git yo' suah."

"Nonsense!" I retorted sharply. "I'll get through all right, and we can easily hold out till reinforcements come. Now get on your horse. Remember, the faster you go, the surer you'll be to save us all."

He swung himself into the saddle, and turned for a moment to look at me, the tears streaming down his face. He seemed to think me as good as dead already.

"Good-by, Sam," I said.

"Good-by, Mas' Tom," and he put spurs to his horse and set off down the road.

I watched him until the trees hid him from sight, and then sprang upon my horse and started forward. Eight or ten miles, Polete had said, northward near the river. The road served me for some miles, and then I came to a cross road, which seemed well traveled. Not doubting that this led to the plantation of which I was in search, I turned into it, and proceeded onward as rapidly as the darkness of the woods permitted. Evening was at hand, and under the overlapping branches of the trees, the gloom grew deep and deeper. At last, away to the right, I caught the gleam of water, and with a sigh of relief knew I was near the river and so on the right road. The house could not be much farther on. With renewed vigor I urged my horse forward, and in a few minutes came to the edge of a clearing, and there before me was the house.

But it was not this which drew my eyes. Far away on the other side, concealed from the house by a grove of trees, a shadowy line of tiny figures was emerging from the forest. Even as I looked, they vanished, and I rubbed my eyes in bewilderment. Yet I knew they had not deceived me. It was the war party preparing for the attack.

I set spurs to my horse and galloped the jaded beast toward the house as fast as his weary legs would carry him. As I drew near, I saw it was a large and well-built mansion. Lights gleamed through the open doors and windows. Evidently none there dreamed of danger, and I thanked God that I should be in time. In a moment I was at the door, and as I threw myself from the saddle, I heard from the open window a ringing laugh which thrilled me through and through, for I knew that the voice was Dorothy's.



CHAPTER XXV

I FIND MYSELF IN A DELICATE SITUATION

I staggered up the steps, reeling as from a blow on the head, and a negro met me at the top.

"Where is your master?" I asked.

"Kun'l Ma'sh 's obah at Frederick, sah," he answered, looking at me with astonished eyes.

"Your mistress, then, quick, boy!" and as he turned toward the open door with a gesture of his hand, I hurried after him. There was a buzz of conversation in the room as we approached, but it ceased abruptly as we entered. I felt rather than saw that Dorothy was there, but I looked only at the plump little woman who half rose from her chair and stared at me in astonishment. I suppose my appearance was sufficiently surprising, but there was no time to think of that.

"A gen'leman t' see yo', Mis' Ma'sh," said my guide.

I had not caught the name before, but now I understood, and as I looked at the woman before me, I saw her likeness to her son.

"I am Captain Stewart, Mrs. Marsh," I said, controlling my voice as well as I could. "You may, perhaps, have heard of me. If not, there are others present who can vouch for me," but I did not move my eyes from her face.



"That is quite unnecessary, Captain Stewart," she cried, coming to me and giving me her hand very prettily. "I knew your grandfather, and you resemble him greatly." And then she stopped suddenly and grew very pale. "I remember now," she said. "You were in dear Harry's company."

"I was not in his company, but I knew and loved him well," I answered gently, taking both her hands and holding them tight in mine. "He was a brave and gallant boy, and lost his life while trying to save another's. I was with him when he fell."

She came close to me, and I could feel that she was trembling.

"And did he suffer?" she asked. "Oh, I cannot bear to think that he should suffer!"

"He did not suffer," I said. "He was shot through the heart. He did not have an instant's pain."

She was crying softly against my shoulder, but I held her from me.

"Mrs. Marsh," I said, "it is not of Harry we must think now, but of ourselves. This afternoon I learned that the Indians had planned an attack upon this place to-night. I sent my servant back to the fort for reinforcements and rode on to give the alarm. As I neared the house, I saw their war party skulking in the woods, so that the attack may not be long delayed."

Her face had turned ashen, and I was glad that I had kept her hands in mine, else she would have fallen.



"There is no danger," I added cheerily. "We must close the doors and windows, and we can easily keep them off till morning. The troops will be here by that time."

"Oh, do you think so?" she gasped.

"I am sure of it. Now, will you give the orders to the servants?"

But that was not necessary. The man who had shown me in had heard my words, and already had the other servants at work, closing and barring doors and windows. I saw that my assistance was not needed.

Then for the first time I looked at Dorothy. She was standing, leaning lightly with one hand upon a table, her eyes large and dark with terror, and her lips quivering, perhaps at the scene which had gone before. Her mother was seated by her, and it was to her I turned.

"I beg you to believe, Mrs. Stewart," I said, "that I did not know you and your daughter were here. Indeed, I thought you both were back at Riverview ere this."

"I believe you, Mr. Stewart," she answered softly. "I believe you to be a man of honor. I am sure I can trust you."

There was a tone in her voice which I had never heard before.

"Thank you," I said. "I shall try to deserve your trust," and then I turned away to look to our defenses.

I confess that, after the first five minutes, our situation appeared more perilous than I had at first believed it. There was no white man in the house except myself, only a dozen negro servants, five of whom were men. A boy, whom I sent to the negro quarters to bring reinforcements, returned with the news that they were deserted, but he brought back with him the overseer, a man named Brightson, who was to prove his mettle before the night was out.

"I suspected this afternoon that there was something in the wind," he said to me, when I had explained our situation, "though I could not guess what it was. The niggers were so damned quiet, not singing in the field as they always do. They've been mighty uneasy for a month back."

"Yes, I know," I interrupted. "It's the same all over the colony. They think the French are going to help them kill the English. I'm rather glad they ran away. How about these house niggers?"

"Oh, they're all right, especially Pomp there. They'll help us all they can."

"That makes seven of us, then. Can you shoot?"

"Try me," he answered simply.

"All right," I said. "We'll pull through, I think. Indians are no good at anything but a surprise. I dare say some of the niggers have told them that there would be no men here to-night, so they think they'll have an easy victory."

I had ordered Pomp to bring to the hall all the arms and ammunition in the house, and at this moment he touched me on the elbow and told me this was done. Brightson and I looked over the collection, and found it as complete as could be desired. There were a dozen muskets, half a dozen pairs of pistols, a pile of swords and hangers, and ammunition in plenty. Evidently, Colonel Marsh had foreseen the possibility of an Indian attack, and was prepared to receive it. A tour of the house showed me, moreover, that it had been built with the same possibility in view. The doors and shutters were all strong and double-barred, and moreover were loopholed in a way that enabled us to command both approaches. I divided the arms, and posted Brightson with three men at the rear door, while I, with Pomp and another negro, took a place at the front. The women I sent to the top of the staircase, where they would be out of reach of any flying bullets, and could at the same time see what was going on. It was my aunt who protested against this arrangement.

"Can we not be of use, Captain Stewart?" she asked. "We could at least load the muskets for you."

"And I am sure that I could fire one," cried Dorothy.

"No, no," I laughed. "Time enough for that when there is need. They will not fancy the reception they will get, and may not return for a second dose." And with a sudden tenderness at my heart, right under the eyes of Mrs. Stewart, I reached up, caught Dorothy's hand, and kissed it. When I glanced up again, I saw that she was smiling down at me, but I dared not look at her mother's face.

I had wondered at first why the attack was not made at once, but as I stood looking out at my loophole, I perceived the reason. The first shade of evening had found the moon high in the heavens, and it was now rapidly sinking toward the line of trees which marked the horizon. Once plunged behind them, the darkness would enable the Indians to creep up to the house unseen. I watched the moon as it dropped slowly down the sky. The lower rim just touched the treetops—then it was half behind them—then it had disappeared, and the world was plunged in darkness. I peered into the gloom with starting eyes, but could see nothing. I strained my ears, but could catch no sound; three or four tense minutes passed, I could have sworn it was half an hour. One of the negro women on the stair screamed slightly, and, as though it were a signal, there came a great blow upon the door and pandemonium arose without. I fired blindly through my loophole, seized the musket at my side, and fired a second time, then emptied both my pistols out into the night. It seemed to me a hundred rifles were being fired at once. The hall was full of smoke and the pungent smell of powder, and then, in a second, all was still.

But only for a second. For there came another chorus of yells from a distance, and I could hear the negro women on the steps behind me wailing softly.

"Load!" I shouted. "Load, Pomp! They will be back in a minute," and then I ran to the other door to see how Brightson fared.

"All right," he said cheerfully, in answer to my question. "We couldn't see 'em, but we emptied a good deal of lead out there, and I think from the way they yelled we must have hit two or three." "Keep it up!" I cried. "We'll drive them off easily," and with a word of encouragement to the negroes, I returned to my post. As I neared the door, I saw two figures in white working over the guns. It was Dorothy and her mother, helping the negroes reload. I sent them back to the stair with affected sternness, but I got a second hand-clasp from Dorothy as she passed me.

Then came another long period of waiting, which racked the nerves until the silence grew well-nigh insupportable. The darkness without was absolute, and there was not a sound to disturb the stillness. The minutes passed, and I was just beginning to hope that the Indians had already got enough, when I caught the faint shuffle of moccasined feet on the porch, and again the door was struck a terrific blow, which made it groan on its hinges. I fired out into the darkness as fast as I could lay down one gun and pick up another, and again the uproar ceased as suddenly as it had begun. As I turned away a moment from the loophole, I saw that Pomp had sunk down to the floor, his hands to his head.

"What is it, Pomp?" I cried, as I bent over him, but there was no need for him to answer, even had he been able. A bullet, entering the loop-hole through which he was firing, had struck his left eye and entered the head. The other negro and myself laid him to one side against the wall, and when I went to him ten minutes later to see if there was anything I could do, he was dead. I turned away to the women to say some words of cheer and comfort to them, when a call from Brightson startled me.

"What has happened?" I asked, as I reached his side, and for answer he pointed out through the loophole.

"They have fired the nigger quarters and outbuildings," he said grimly. "They'll probably try to fire the house next."

Even as we looked, the flames rose high above the roofs of the cabins and bathed the clearing in red radiance. In and out among the buildings we could see the Indians scampering, a hundred of them at least. Suddenly there was a chorus of yells, and two Indians appeared, rolling a cask before them into the belt of light.

"They've found a keg of rum which was in my quarters," remarked Brightson; "now they'll get crazy drunk. Our task has just begun, Captain Stewart."

I realized that he spoke the truth. Sober, an Indian will not stand up long in open fight, but drunk, he is a devil incarnate,—a fiend who will dare anything. I watched them as they knocked in the head of the cask and scooped up the raw spirits within. Then one of them began a melancholy melody, which rose and fell in measured cadence, the other warriors gradually joining in and stamping the ground with their feet. Every minute one would run to the cask for another draught of the rum, and gradually their yells grew louder, their excitement more intense, as they rushed back and forth brandishing their weapons.

"They will soon be on us again," said Brightson in a low tone, but round and round they kept dancing, their leader in front in all his war trappings, the others almost naked, and for the most part painted black. No wonder I had been unable to see them in the darkness.

"They are going to attack us again, Tom, are they not?" asked a low voice at my elbow.

"Dorothy," I cried, "what are you doing here? Come, you must get back to the stair at once. The attack may come at any moment."

"You are treating me like a child," she protested, and her eyes flashed passionately. "Do you think we are cowards, we women? We will not be treated so! We have come to help you."

I looked at her in amazement. This was not the Dorothy I knew, but a braver, sweeter one. Her mother and Mrs. Marsh were behind her, both looking equally determined.

"Very well," I said, yielding with an ill grace. "You may sit on the floor here and load the guns as we fire them. That will be of greater service than if you fired them yourselves, and you will be quite out of reach of the bullets."

Dorothy sniffed contemptuously at my last words, but deigned to sit down beside the other women. I placed the powder and ball where they could reach them easily, shaded a candle so that it threw its light only on the floor beside them, gave them a few directions about loading, and rejoined Brightson at his loophole. The Indians had stopped dancing, and were engaged in heaping up a great pile of burning logs.

"What are they about?" I asked.

Brightson looked at me with a grim light in his eyes.

"They're going to try to burn us out," he said, and almost before he had spoken, the Indians seized a hundred burning brands from the fire, and waving them about their heads to fan them to a brighter flame, started toward us.



CHAPTER XXVI

A DESPERATE DEFENSE

I had barely time to get back to my post at the front door when they were upon us. I fired out into the rabble, and as I turned to get another gun, Dorothy was at my side and thrust it into my hands. There was no time to protest, even had I not realized, as I glanced into her eyes, that protestation would be useless. I fired a second time, when a tremendous explosion in the hall at my side startled me. I saw in a moment what had happened. The negro who was at the other loophole, dazed with fear, had discharged his gun straight into the ceiling overhead, and then, flinging it down, turned and ran. I could not pursue him, and grabbing a third gun from Dorothy, I fired again at the Indians, some of whom were swarming up the steps. As I did so, I stared an instant in amazement, for at the shot two men had fallen. As I turned back for another musket, I saw Mrs. Stewart at the other loophole, a smoking rifle in her hands, into which she was feverishly ramming another charge. It was a sight that made my heart leap, and I found myself suddenly admiring her. But before either of us could fire again, the Indians were gone, and a chorus of yells and sharp firing told me they were attacking Brightson's side of the house. The noise died away after a moment, and they appeared again borne distance off, looking back eagerly as though expecting something.

I saw with a start that their firebrands were no longer in their hands, and a moment later a puff of smoke from the corner of the house and the exultant yells of the savages warned me of our new danger. As I turned from the door, I met Brightson coming to seek me with an anxious face.

"They have fired the house, Captain Stewart," he said.

"I fear so. We must find the place and put out the flames."

Without a word he turned and followed me, and we opened the shutters a little here and there and looked out. We soon found what we were seeking.

As the Indians had dashed around the house from front to rear, they had approached the side and piled their burning brands against the boards. We looked down from the window and saw that the house had already caught fire. In a few moments the flames would be beyond control. I was back to the hall in an instant.

"Is there any water in the house?" I asked of Mrs. Marsh, who was seated on the floor reloading our guns with a coolness which told me where her son had got his gallantry.

She looked at me an instant with face whitened by a new fear.

"Do you mean that the house is on fire?" she asked.

I nodded.

"There is no water," she said very quietly. "The well is a hundred yards from the house."

I beckoned to the negroes, who were listening in an anxious group, and hastened back to Brightson.

"There is no water," I said to him briefly. "I am going to open the shutter, drop down, and knock the fire away from the house. Do you be ready to pull me back in again, when I have finished."

"But it is death to do that," he exclaimed.

"No, no," I said. "You and the boys can keep them off. There is no other way."

He turned from me and looked about the room.

"This will save you," he cried, and ran to a heavy oak table which stood in one corner. I looked at him for a moment without understanding.

"We will throw it through the window," he explained. "You can drop behind it, and the Indians' bullets cannot reach you."

I saw his plan before he had finished, and we had the table at the window in an instant.

"Now, boys, all together," I cried, and as I threw the shutter back, they lifted the table to the sill and pushed it through. Before the Indians understood what was happening, I had dropped beside it, pulled it around to screen me, and was kicking the brands away from the building. Then they understood, and made a rush for the house, but met so sharp a reception from Brightson and his men that they fell back, and contented themselves with keeping up a sharp fusilade upon my place of concealment. It was the work of only a few moments to kick away the brands and beat out the flames which were running along the side of the house. I signaled to Brightson that I was ready to return, and he opened a heavy fire upon the savages, which drove them for a moment out of musket range. Then throwing the shutter back, he leaned out, grasped my hands, and pulled me into the house without a scratch.

"That's what I call genius," he observed, as he clapped the shutter tight and shot the bar into place. "I fancy they're getting about enough."

"I trust so," I answered. "But in any event, our troops will be here in two or three hours more."

We stood for some time in silence and watched the Indians. They drew together near one of the burning buildings, apparently for a consultation, and then running to a cabin which had not yet been consumed, they tore off the heavy door and shutters.

"They haven't given it up yet," remarked Brightson grimly, "but they're going to advance under cover this time."

Evidently some further preparation was necessary, for half a dozen of them worked away busily for some time, though we could not see what they were doing.

"What new deviltry are they up to now?" I heard Brightson mutter to himself, but I could find no answer to his question, for I knew little of this kind of warfare.

It was soon answered by the Indians themselves. A dozen of them ran around the house in different directions, each carrying a board, while the others, after paying a last visit to the cask of rum, grouped themselves opposite the rear door, but well out of range. We watched them in breathless silence. Those who were armed with shields approached nearer and nearer, until within perhaps fifty yards. We fired at them, but seemingly without effect. Then there was a moment of anxious waiting, and almost together a dozen streamers of fire rose high into the air and descended toward the house. Some fell harmlessly on the ground without, and we saw that they were arrows tipped with burning tow, but the most must have fallen upon the roof. A second and third shower of fire followed, and then the Indians withdrew behind their shields and quietly awaited the result.

"They have set fire to the roof," I gasped. "We must put it out at once, or we are lost."

"Leave that to me, Captain Stewart," said Brightson quietly, and I never admired the courage of a man more than I did his at that moment. "I will get out on the roof, and throw the arrows down. I don't believe they can hit me."

It was the only thing to do, and he was gone even as I nodded my assent. Five minutes passed, and then the Indians began to yell again, and I knew that Brightson had reached the roof. Almost at the same instant, the main body of the savages advanced at a run, some of them carrying a heavy log, the others holding boards in front of them. We sent a dozen bullets among them before they reached the door, but they came on without faltering. One man, very tall and clad in a suit of fringed buckskin, ran in front and urged them on. I fired at him twice, but he came on as before, and I knew that I had wasted the bullets.

Up the steps they came, yelling like devils fresh from hell, and brought the log crashing against the door, while others thrust their muskets through the loopholes and fired into the hallway. One of the negroes sank down without a groan, the blood spurting from his neck, and another dropped his gun with a yell, and, clapping his hands to his face, ran shrieking down the hall.

Again the log thundered against the door, one of the bars sprung loose, and half a dozen shots were fired into the hallway. I saw that the door could hold but a moment longer, and shouting to the negroes to fall back, I retreated to the stair, grabbing up a hanger as I passed the place where we had piled the arms. Running back again, I caught up a bag of powder and another of ball, so that we might not be utterly without ammunition, and with these sped up the stair, pushing the women before me.

We were not an instant too soon, for the door crashed down at the next blow, and the savages poured over the threshold. They paused a moment to see what had become of us, and this gave us opportunity to pour a volley into them. Then on they came, the man in buckskin still leading them. As they reached the foot of the stair, I took steady aim at him with my pistol and pulled the trigger. But he seemed to have some intuition of his danger, for he stooped suddenly, and it was the man behind him who threw up his hands, sprang into the air, and fell backward. They faltered only for an instant, and then swarmed up the steps, their greased faces gleaming in the powder flashes. I thought it as good as ended, and throwing down my musket, caught up my hanger for a final stand, when something was thrown past me and bounded down the stair. It swept half the Indians off their feet and carried them down before it, and the others, not knowing what had happened, turned and ran down after them. Nor, indeed, did I know until afterward, when I learned that Brightson, coming down from the roof and taking in our peril at a glance, had caught up a great log from the fireplace in the upper hall, where it was awaiting the winter lighting, and, with a strength little short of superhuman, had hurled it down upon the savages.

It gave us respite for a moment, but it was certain they would charge again, and I knew too well what the result would be, for the last of the negroes had flung down his gun and run away, leaving only Brightson and me to guard the women. It was Mrs. Marsh who spoke the saving word.

"Why not retreat to the roof?" she said. "They could not get at us there."

It was the only chance of safety, so to the roof we went, the women first, and we two bringing up the rear. Once there, we closed the trap and waited. In a moment we heard the yell which told us that our retreat had been discovered, and then again came silence.

"This is no ordinary Indian attack," said Brightson, who was wiping the sweat and powder stains from his face. "There's a Frenchman leading them, and maybe two or three. Did you see that fellow in buckskin who ran in front?"

"Yes," I answered gloomily. "I have fired at him three times, but always missed him."

"Well, he is no Indian," said Brightson, "in spite of his painted face. If they hadn't had that cask of rum and him to lead them, they would have cleared out of this long ago. They have no stomach for this kind of work, unless they are full of liquor."

The sky in the east was turning from black to gray, and the dawn was not far distant.

"Our troops will soon be here," I said, and went to the women where they were crouching behind a protecting gable. Dorothy, her mother, and Mrs. Marsh were sitting side by side, and they all smiled at me as I approached.

"I think we are safe here," I said as cheerily as I could, "and the reinforcements cannot be far away. I know Colonel Washington too well to think he would delay a moment longer than necessary to start to our relief."

"You have made a brave defense, Captain Stewart," said Mrs. Marsh earnestly. "I realize what would have been our fate long ere this, had you not been here."

"Nay, madame," I interrupted, "I could have done little by myself. I have learned to-night that the women of Virginia are no less gallant than the men."

"Come, come," laughed Dorothy, "this is not a drawing-room that you need think you must flatter us, Tom."

I glanced at Mrs. Stewart, and saw with some surprise that she too was smiling.

"'Twas not flattery," I protested, "but a simple statement of fact. And there is another here," I added, turning to Mrs. Marsh, "whose conduct should be remembered. I have never seen a braver man," and I glanced at Brightson where he sat, his musket across his knees.

"I shall remember it," she said, as she followed my eyes.

A burst of yells and a piercing cry from below interrupted us.

"What was that?" asked Dorothy, white to the lips.

"They have found one of the negroes," I answered, as calmly as I could. "They ran away, and must have hidden somewhere in the house."

We sat listening, the women pale and horror-stricken, and even Brightson and I no little moved. The yells and the single shrill cry were repeated a second time and then a third, and finally all was still again save for the negro women wailing softly, as they rocked themselves to and fro behind the gable, their arms about their knees. I crept back to my station by the trap and waited feverishly for what should happen next. We could hear steps in the hall below, a short consultation and a clanking of arms, and then all was still.

"Here they come," said Brightson, between his teeth, and even as he spoke, the trap was thrown outward by a great force from below, and the savage swarm poured forth upon the roof. I struck madly at the first man, and saw another fall, pierced by a bullet from Brightson's gun, and then he was down and I heard the sough of a knife thrust into him.

"They are coming! They are coming!" screamed a shrill voice behind me, and I turned to see Dorothy upright on the roof, pointing away to the southward. And there, sure enough, at the edge of the clearing, was a troop of Virginians, galloping like mad. Ah, how welcome were those blue uniforms! We could hear them cheering, and, with a leaping heart, I saw it was Colonel Washington himself who led them.

For an instant the Indians stood transfixed, and then, with a yell, turned back toward the trap. All save one. I saw him raise his musket to his shoulder and take deliberate aim at Dorothy as she stood there outlined in white against the purple sky. I sprang at him with a cry of rage, and dragged his gun toward me as he pulled the trigger. There was a burst of flame in my face, a ringing in my ears, I felt the earth slipping from me, and knew no more.



CHAPTER XXVII

I COME INTO MY OWN

It was long before I realized that that white, bandaged thing lying on the bed before me was my hand. I gazed at it curiously for a while and stirred it slightly to make sure,—what a mighty effort that little motion cost me!—and then I became aware that a breeze was passing across my face, and a peculiar thing about it was that it came and went regularly like the swinging of a pendulum. And when I raised my eyes to see what this might mean, I found myself looking straight into the astonished face of Sam, my boy.

He stared at me for a moment, his eyes starting from his head, and then with a loud cry he dropped the fan he had been wielding and ran from the room, clapping his hands together as he went, as I had heard negroes do under stress of great excitement. What could it mean? Again my eyes fell upon the queer, bandaged thing which must be my hand. Had there been an accident? I could not remember, and while my mind was still wrestling with the question in a helpless, flabby way, I heard the swish of skirts at the door, and there entered who but Dorothy!

"Why, Dorothy!" I cried, and then stopped, astonished at the sound of my own voice. It was not my voice at all,—I had never heard it before,—and it seemed to come from a great way off. And what astonished me more than anything else was that Dorothy did not seem in the least surprised by it.

"Yes, Tom," she said, and she came to the bedside and laid her hand upon my head. Such a cool, soft little hand it was. "Why, the fever is quite gone! You will soon be well again."

I tried to raise my hand to take hers, but it lay there like a great dead weight, and I could scarcely move it. I know not what it was, but at the sight of her standing there so strong and brave and sweet, and the thought of myself so weak and helpless, the tears started from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks in two tiny rivulets. She seemed to understand my thought, for she placed one of her hands in mine, and with the other wiped my tears away. I love to think of her always as I saw her then, bending over me with infinite pity in her face and wiping my tears away. The moment of weakness passed, and my brain seemed clearer than it had been.

"Have I been ill?" I asked.

"Very ill, Tom," she said. "But now you will get well very quickly."

"What was the matter with me, Dorothy?"

She looked at me a moment and seemed hesitating for an answer.

"I think you would better go to sleep now, Tom," she said at last, "and when you wake again, I will tell you all about it."

"Very well," I answered submissively, and indeed, at the time, my brain seemed so weary that I had no wish to know more.

She gently took her hand from mine and went to a table, where she poured something from a bottle into a glass. I followed her with my eyes, noting how strong and confident and beautiful she was.

"Drink this, Tom," she said, bringing the glass back to the bed and holding it to my lips. I gulped it down obediently, and then watched her again as she went to the window and drew the blind. She came back in a moment and sat down in the chair from which I had startled Sam. She picked up the fan which he had dropped, and waved it softly to and fro above me, smiling gently down into my face. And as I lay there watching her, the present seemed to slip away and leave me floating in a land of clouds.

But when I opened my eyes again, it all came back to me in an instant, and I called aloud for Dorothy. She was bending over me almost before the sound of my voice had died away.

"Oh, thank God!" I cried. "It was only a dream, then! You are safe, Dorothy,—there were no Indians,—tell me it was only a dream."

"Yes, I am quite safe, Tom," she answered, and took my hand in both of hers.

"And the Indians?" I asked.

"Were frightened away by Colonel Washington and his men, who killed many of them."

I closed my eyes for a moment, and tried to reconstruct the drama of that dreadful night.

"Dorothy," I asked suddenly, "was Brightson killed?"

"Yes, Tom," she answered softly.

I sighed.

"He was a brave man," I said. "No man could have been braver."

"Only one, I think," and she smiled down at me tremulously, her eyes full of tears.

"Yes, Colonel Washington," I said, after a moment's thought. "Perhaps he is braver."

"I was not thinking of Colonel Washington, Tom," and her lips began to tremble.

I gazed at her a moment in amazement.

"You do not mean me, Dorothy?" I cried. "Oh, no; I am not brave. You do not know how frightened I grow when the bullets whistle around me."

She laid her fingers on my lips with the prettiest motion in the world.

"Hush," she said. "I will not listen to such blasphemy."

"At least," I protested, "I am not so brave as you,—no, nor as your mother, Dorothy. I had no thought that she was such a gallant woman."

"Ah, you do not know my mother!" she cried. "But you shall know her some day, Tom. Nor has she known you, though I think she is beginning to know you better, now."

There were many things I wished to hear,—many questions that I asked,—and I learned how Sam had galloped on until he reached the fort, how he had given the alarm, how Colonel Washington himself had ridden forth twenty minutes later at the head of fifty men,—all who could be spared,—and had spurred on through the night, losing the road more than once and searching for it with hearts trembling with fear lest they should be too late, and how they had not been too late, but had saved us,—saved Dorothy.

"And I think you are dearer to the commander's heart than any other man," she added. "Indeed, he told me so. For he stayed here with you for three days, watching at your bedside, until he found that he could stay no longer, and then he tore himself away as a father leaves his child. I had never seen him moved so deeply, for you know he rarely shows emotion."

Ah, Dorothy, you did not know him as did I! You had not been with him at Great Meadows, nor beside the Monongahela, nor when we buried Braddock there in the road in the early morning. You had not been with him at Winchester when wives cried to him for their husbands, and children for their parents, nor beside the desolated hearths of a hundred frontier families. And of a sudden it came over me as a wave rolls up the beach, how much of sorrow and how little of joy had been this man's portion. Small wonder that his face seemed always sad and that he rarely smiled.

Dorothy had left me alone a moment with my thoughts, and when she came back, she brought her mother with her. I had never seen her look at me as she looked now, and for the first time perceived that it was from her Dorothy got her eyes. She stood in the doorway for a moment, gazing down at me, and then, before I knew what she was doing, had fallen on her knees beside my bed and was kissing my bandaged hand.

"Why, aunt!" I cried, and would have drawn it from her.

"Oh, Tom," she sobbed, and clung to it, "can you forgive me?"

"Forgive you, aunt?" I cried again, yet more amazed. "What have you done that you should stand in need of my forgiveness?"

"What have I done?" she asked, and raised her face to mine. "What have I not done, rather? I have been a cold, hard woman, Tom. I have forgot what right and justice and honor were. But I shall forget no longer. Do you know what I have here in my breast?" she cried, and she snatched forth a paper and held it before my eyes. "You could never guess. It is a letter you wrote to me."

"A letter I wrote to you?" I repeated, and then as I saw the superscription, I felt my cheeks grow hot. For it read, "To be delivered at once to Mrs. Stewart."

"Ay," she said, "a letter you wrote to me, and which I should never have received had you not forgot it and left it lying on my table in my study at Riverview. Can you guess what I felt, Tom, when they brought it to me here, and I opened it and read that you had gone to the swamp alone amongst those devils? I thought that you were dead, since the letter had been delivered, and the whole extent of the wrong I had done you sprang up before me. But they told me you were not dead,—that Colonel Washington had come for you, and that you had ridden hastily away with him. I could guess the story, and I should never have known that you had saved the place but for the chance which made you forget this letter."

I had tried to stop her more than once. She had gone on without heeding me, but now she paused.

"It was nothing," I said. "Nothing. There was no real danger. Thank Long. He was with me. He is a better man than I."

"Oh, yes," she cried, "they are all better men than you, I dare say! Do not provoke me, sir, or you will have me quarreling with you before I have said what I came here to say. Can you guess what that is?" and she paused again, to look at me with a great light in her eyes.

But I was far past replying. I gazed up at her, bewildered, dazzled. I had never known this woman.

"I see you cannot guess," she said. "Of course you cannot guess! How could you, knowing me as you have known me? 'Tis this. Riverview is yours, Tom, and shall be always yours from this day forth, as of right it has ever been."

Riverview mine? No, no, I did not want Riverview. It was something else I wanted.

"I shall not take it, aunt," I said quite firmly. "I am going to make a name for myself,—with my sword, you know," I added with a smile, "and when I have once done that, there is something else which I shall ask you for, which will be dearer to me—oh, far dearer—than a hundred Riverviews."

What ailed the women? Here was Dorothy too on her knees and kissing my bandaged hand.

"Oh, Tom, Tom," she cried, "do you not understand?"

"Understand?" I repeated blankly. "Understand what, Dorothy?"

"Don't you remember, dear, what happened just before the troops came?"

"Oh, very clearly," I answered. "The Indians got Brightson down and stabbed him, and just then you sprang up and cried the troops were coming, and sure enough, there they were just entering the clearing, and the Indians paused only for one look and then fled down the stairs as fast as they could go. 'T was you who saved us all, Dorothy."

"Oh, but there was something more!" she cried. "There was one Indian who did not run, Tom, but who stopped to aim at me. I saw him do it, and I closed my eyes, for I knew that he would kill me, and I heard his gun's report, but no bullet struck me. For it was you whom it struck, dear, through your hand and into your side, and for long we thought you dying."

"Yes," I said, "but you see I am not dying, nor like to die, dear Dorothy, so that I may still rejoin the troops erelong."

She was looking at me with streaming eyes.

"Do you mean that I am not going to get well, Dorothy?" I asked, for I confess her tears frightened me.

"Oh, not so bad as that, dear!" she cried. "Thank God, not so bad as that! But your hand, Tom, your right hand is gone. You can never wield a sword again, dear, never go to war. You will have to stay at home with me."

I know not how it was, but she was in my arms, and her lips were on mine, and I knew that was no more parting for us.



CHAPTER XVIII

AND SO, GOOD-BY

Well, a right hand is a little price to pay for the love of a wife like mine, and if I have made no name in the world, I at least live happy in it, which is perhaps a greater thing. And I have grown to use my left hand very handily. I have learnt to write with it, as the reader knows,—and when I hold my wife to me, I have her ever next my heart.

It is the fashion, I know well, to stop the story on the altar's steps, and leave the reader to guess at all that may come after, but as I turn over the pages I have writ, they seem too much a tale of failure and defeat, and I would not have it so. For the lessons learned at Fort Necessity and Winchester and at Duquesne have given us strength to drive the French from the continent and the Indian from the frontier. So that now we dwell in peace, and live our lives in quiet and content, save for some disagreements with the king about our taxes, which Lord Grenville has made most irksome.

And even to my dearest friend, whose life, as I have traced it here, has been so full of sorrow and reverse, has come great happiness. He is honored of all men, and has found love as well, for he has brought a wife home to Mount Vernon. Dorothy declares that Mistress Washington is the very image of that Mary Cary who used him so ill years ago,—but this may be only a woman's leaning toward romance.

Indeed, we have a romance in our own home,—a bright-eyed girl of twenty, who, I fear, is soon to leave us, if a certain pert young blade who lives across the river has his way. It will be I who give her away at the altar, for her father lies dead beside the Monongahela,—brave, gentle-hearted Spiltdorph. My eyes grow dim even now when I think of you, yet I trust that I have done as you would have had me do. For I found the girl at Hampton, after a weary search,—perhaps some day I shall tell the story.

It is in the old seat by the river's edge I write these words, and as I lay down the pen, my hand falls on those carved letters, T and D, with a little heart around them,—very faint, now, and worn with frequent kisses,—and as I lift my head, I see coming to me across the grass the woman who carved them there and whom I love.

THE END