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# Copyright, 1902, by THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY
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His tone had fallen. =Is it his fault, | area tw pear what the other mignt
mademoiselle, if his custom is not the
custom of your land, if he knows not
to repress, if he must say what he
feels?’ He finished very low. “Is it
his fault that he cannot forget that
your face hid itself upon his breast for
one little moment here in the forest?”
She was alternately flushing and pal-
ing, and her eyes were shining. “You
must not! You must not!” she cried
out with softer voice.
With the words she started walking
rapidly, hastening without glancing at
him. The dimness of the interlaced
branches overhead parted; the {trees
stood sparser.
let in the fading sunlight and a view
of yellow stubble, and beyond this
showed a broad gateway—twin brick
pillars crested with martlets—opening
on a winding road to a great house that
looked a many windowed welcome.
It sat snuggled in elms on a hill from
whose crest a terraced lawn fell softly
into the arms of the shining, twisted
river—a southern home in its high days,
its dairy, meat house, ice house and
granaries all dazzling white against
the blue and olive of sky and wood.
Spacious offices stood to the left, and
wide negro quarters squatted at some
distance behind it. Near by a tiny creek
sparkled down to wash a tangle of is-
lands. From adjacent fields came the
piping whistle of partridges in grass.
Just before the gateway the young
man’s voice caught her. “For the sake
of that one moment, mademoiselle,” he
said huskily.
She paused, looked back and held out
her hand. He dropped upon one knee
and touched his lips to her fingers.
“I am glad I owe my life to you,” she
said softly.
Gazing at him uncertainly an instant,
she hesitated, then turned and ran rap-
idly up the winding drive. Her hound
lifted his shag head from the columned
porch and came leaping down to meet
her, while his whine drew Mammy Ev-
aline peering from the kitchen door,
her weather beaten face dilating into a
smile.
“Lawd. dar come mammy’s honey
chile safe an’ soun’!” she cried to Mrs.
Tillotson, who came hastily to the
steps and waved her hand at the girl's
fluttering signal.
" “Down, Sweetlips! Down!” cried
Anne as the hound leaped against her.
She stopped, bethinking herself of the
indenture.
She ran back to the gateway. but the
young Frenchman was not to be seen.
As she stood peering into the pines the
breeze went playing with some torn
bits of paper scattered in the ruts. She
picked up several fragments and strove
Yo decipher them. “Which term the said
bond servant faithfully shall ‘serve
® * * (oes covenant with the said Louis
Armand, holder,” she read.
Then she caught her breath and, for-
bearing to glance in the direction of the
forest road, walked toward the anxious
figure on the porch of the great house.
I and peaked shingle roof not
far from the Yorkiown river
front, the candles had been early light-
ed that night. There, as day fainted
out, supping at his ease at a table in
the long parlor, sat a man of middle
age whose effrontery and insolence had
long ago earned him cordial hatred
throughout Williamsburg, He was
Captain Foy, aid to Governor Dun-
more.
He looked up as another guest en-
tered and dropped his knife clattering.
“Jarrat!” he cried. “I thought you
were in London!”
“So I was; so 1 was, but 1 am re-
turned today,” Jarrat answered easily.
“How goes it at Williamsburg, Cap-
tain Foy? And how does Governor
Dunmore with that ant hill of disloy-
alty?”
“He is away with the troops to quell
the Indians on the Pennsylvania bound-
ary. He will not see Williamsburg
again before November. You stayed
not long abroad. I heard you were
gone for a year of off duty pleasuring.”
“These Virginias get in the blood.”
Jarrat simulated a sigh. “I have lost
the old land love, I fear.”
He did not see fit to tell the true rea-
son of his sea voyage or that he had
been more in Paris than in London. He
was a more subtle servant of Dun-
more's than the governor’s aid, who
dreamed he knew all of the great
man’s mind.
“What has happened since I left,
captain?” he finished.
The other got up, pulled the door to
carefully and came back. “Jarrat. T
wonder if I shall ever see you royal
CHAPTER V.
‘N the Swan tavern, which lifted
its yellow Holland brick front
governor of this colony you love so.
well.”
Jarrat had risen with an exclama-
tion. ;
“Sit down, man,” said Foy. *’Ods
bods! Tis a fair enough ambition.
Why not? You are young, and you can
do much yet for Lord Dunmore. The
king rewards his servants. Demme, I
like you the better for aiming high!
Stranger things have happened. Me-
thinks Mistress Tillotson would not
frown so upon a royal governor, eh?”
Jarrat sat ®wn again. It is a har-
rowing monient when one’s most secret
thought is laid bare at a slash. He
: a
Just ahead a leafy arch !
say.
“Affairs are awry here,” Foy contin-
ued, “and I must overtake the governor
with advices. Meanwhile there is an
important matter I intend to tell you.
I judge I can speak plain. You may be
able to assist in a delicate undertaking,
‘and you can rest easy Dunmore will
not be ungrateful, nor will the king nei-
ther.”
* A keenness came into Jarrat's face.
“Say on,” he said.
“Very well. Here it is in a nutshell.
As you perchance know, Lord Stor-
. .mont in Paris has been at much pains
to keep informed of the feeling in the
French court. He has lately reported a
growing danger. That rascally son of
a tinker, Beaumarchais, whose schemes
so tickled the fancy of the old king, has
been buzzing about Louis XVI. to some
purpose. De Vergennes, his dog of a
councilor, was always itching to com-
fort the colonies. Well, the matter has
come to a head, and France's aid is in
a fair way to be pledged in the near
future to the colonies. Egad, Jarrat,
an the rebels’ congress knew all that
is in the wind at Versailles they would
split themselves with joy!”
“1 warrant,” said the listener, non-
committal. ;
“Louis,” pursued Foy, “is pretty well
assured of affairs in the north, thanks
to that renegade Franklin, but as to
the Virginias he is not so certain. So
he is sending over one of his noble
popinjays to see for him and report.
"Twas rumored in Paris that the envoy
was to be the Marquis de la Trouerie.”
“I have heard of the gentleman,” said
Jarrat, with careful deliberation. ‘“An-
-other young poppet of Marie Antoi-
nette’s, and a worse republican than
Beaumarchais. And you think he wil’
report that Virginia is ripe for insur
rection?”
“Think! Why. the whole colony is 2
seethe of it. To be sure he will. Trusi
the courtier to smooth the king the
way he would be smoothed.”
“Ah!” said the secretary.
“When does the gentleman.arrive?”’
“A fortnight since word came hither
by the Royal George that he was soon
to take ship.” :
Jarrat smiled beneath his han
Knowing himself so close to the gov-
ernor’s confidence, he could afford to be
amused. Moreover, he had had more
than one meeting while abroad with
Lord Stormont in regard to this same
matter. Foy’s hangman’s humor, how-
ever, made him a favorite with Lord
Dunmore, and it was still worth Jar-
rat’s while to cultivate him. Ts
“] am flattered that you confide in
me,” he said. “But what will you do
with him when he comes? You cannot
seize his person.”
“Why not?’ cried Foy pettishly.
“There's more to his coming than that,
Jarrat. He will report ‘aye’ to this
venture of the king. Well, Louis
needs no further messenger. He will
straightway make the marquis his en-
voy. And think you the visitor need
be let deliver that message? By the
fiend, no! Seize his person, eh? We
shall see, Jarrat! The earl knows his
muttons. Meanwhile this marquis
must be watched for. We must know
where to put a finger on him. The
lower ports are well under espionage.
But some of us must watch here at
Yorktown. ’Tis what I want you to
do, Jarrat. Gad’s life! ’Tis too deli-
cate a matter to intrust to any bog-
gle! p¥e § »
“Again you flatter me.” Jarrat had
been studying Foy through half shut
eyes. Now he opened them.
“Enough, captain; I accept the com-
mission. I take it ypon myself to wel-
come the noble sojourner should he
land here. Who knows, I might even
make friends with him?’
“Good!” Foy’s look wore relief. “I
can leave tomorrow for Winchester,
then, and shall tell Lord Dunmore that
I have confided in you.”
‘Tell his excellency,” Jarrat respond-
ed as the other rose, ‘that I shall keep
a sharp eye for the marquis. From the
moment he lands I shall be his shad-
ow. A pleasant journey,
Leave everything to me.”
“And now,” said Foy, “for a bottle of
old sherry.”
Jarrat went to the yard to see him
go and when he had disappeared turn-
ed his eye to a narrow blank window
under the shingle roof.
“Louis will send another messenger
when the news reaches France! When
it reaches France!” he muttered. Then
more slowly, “When it reaches France!”
He stood musing a moment, turned
and entered the door.
* * = = i * *
The radiant Frenchman that evening,
returning to the Swan afoot through
the late dusk fall, went up the tavern
stair to find that the door of his cham-
ber stood ajar. An exclamation of sur-
prise eseaped him. He mounted quick-
ly and went in.
Jarrat sat there by the little table,
waiting. ;
“Ah!” said the secretary. His eye
darted swiftly to his chest in the cor-
ner. Then he crossed the room and
tried the lid. It had not been openc.l.
“I am no common thief, curse it!”
spat out Jarrat.
“No?” observed Armand, with a ris-
ing inflection. “Monsieur will pardon
me. I did not know.” He sat down
composedly. “To what do I owe this
pleasure?’ tentatively.
Jarrat leaned elbows on the table
and regarded him. “You are no fool,”
he said at length. ‘All the better.”
M. Armand wore a look of polite in-
quiry.
“My word for it,” said Jarrat sudden-
ly, “there are richer paymasters than
Louis XVL.” :
The other fronted him fiercely, men-
acingly. “What mean you?’ he cried.
Jarrat laughed. “You see that I
know what was the marquis’ business
in the colonies.”
He went and closed the door.
“Now,” he said, returning, “M. Ar-
mand, master secretary, clerk of a dead
master, I have a proposition to make
to you.”
“And if,” said the young foreigner
slowly a half hour later, looking across
into the ferret eyes — “if I do this—
what you call it?—masquerade; if I,
the humble secretary, the clerk, as you
have said it, become changed for the
purposes of my lord the earl to the
courtier, the noble”—
He paused. They were sitting at
ease now, and on Jarrat’s face satis-
faction was spread thinly, like oil. The
ingratiating mood became him, and his
companion’s distrustful look had van-
ished into something that smacked
more of friendliness.
“Think you not,” the latter finished,
“that these Virginians will know the
difference ?”’
“’Sblood!” scoffed’ Jarrat. “What
know they here in the desert of I'rench
nobles? No more than my lord bishop
of London’s scullery maid!”
An expression of curious intentness
lurked in Armand’s face. He was si-
lent, searching the other with half
smiling gaze.
, “And the life. Like you balls and
dances with the quality? You shall be
sought after. Would you set the fash-
ions for the gallants? They will jostle
the lackeys to hob with you. Gad’s
life! The colonials are cubs at boot-
licking a lord! The fat of the land, I
tell you—rides, hunts, dances, wenches
and a merry season!”
The secretary’s eyes sparkled. “You
think I would do it well?’ he asked
naively. “Ah, you never saw my mas-
ter! He was a ‘real nobleman. He
was born so. One cannot learn it,
monsieur. it is in the blood. But I?
1? 1 have not the ton, the address?
He looked inquiringly at the other.
“Pshaw!” Jarrat said. “I suppose
your master was fine enough, but fine
feathers wili do it. There's not one of
them will s=cnt the difference. I know
them.”
M. Armand’s lids were drooped, his
face thoughtful.
“You wish me,” he reflected slowly.
capialil.
“to do two things. My master, as you
have guessed—he was to be the eye of
the king of France in the Virginias.
Very good. You want me to be that
eye. Only I shall see things always
bad for the Whigs, eh? And you would
have me write such letters as you shall
frame, but in my master’s hand, so
Louis shall be fooled, so he shall think
the Virginias loyal to the English
crown, so he shall no longer plan to
offer the aid of France.”
“Sooth,” applauded Jarrat, “it couldn’t
be plainer. You have written to your
master’s hand and should know his sig-
nature. Neither De Vergennes nor
Beaumarchais need be the wiser, and
be sure no one in the colonies will be.”
“And if in spite of what were written
him this foolish king should still wish
to comfort?”
“Why, then the message he sends to
his dear marquis will come safe to you,
and we shall chuckle over it in our
closets. But small chance of that. The
king leaned upon your master. A dozen
letters of the proper complexion and he
will forget he ever dreamed of fleets
a-sailing westward.” :
“You have the true finesse, M. le
Capitaine,” M. Armand said gravely.
“Permit me to congratulate you.” ;
“he reward is a tidy one.” Jarra
licked the words lingeringly. “’Twould
take you longer to earn a commission
in your own country.” 3,
“In France to be an officer in the ar-
my one must prove descent from a fam-
ily ennobled for at least a hundred
years.” ;
“Nor are doubloons to be plucked
from the bushes by any stool pigeon.”
“It is not too much, monsieur,” the
Frenchman interposed, “because you
pay me for what I know of my master
—habits, speech, writings, seal, all. I
can write so that the king of France
will never know he is dead—never till I
choose. He will send no other; no—not
till he has found it out. But when he
does, what then? Shall I escape his
wrath? Shall I not be an alien, an ex-
ile from my country?’
Jarrat bent toward him and spoke
smilingly in the arrogance of full
blood:
“Is there no compensation even for
that? Look, you! There be bright
eyes in the middle plantation—bright
eyes and red lips and little waists and
soft ways. There are slender fingers
to be kissed, and these fingers oft hold
purse strings. Love is a preity game,
and by benefit of clergy ’tis sometimes
wed with broad plantations that bring
golden guineas across the water.”
He laughed at the look the other gave
him. “Zooks!” he cried. “Why not?
Think you the proudest of them all
would not blush to be wooed by a no-
ble? There are few ‘my lords’ in the
valleys.”
M. Armand sprang up, pushed the
shutters of the window wide and lean-
ed out, drawing a deep, long breath.
Dark was come down over a moonless
vast flooded with waves of bishop's
purple, to which trees lent a deeper
mystery of shadow. When he turned
his face was tender, Lis eyes luminous. |
“Virginia ladies,” Jarrat continued,
“gre as proud as any court dames. They
have the St. James sniff for the com-
moner. But tis yours to choose from
them all an you use your wit.”
“Mine to choose,” the young foreigner
said as if to himself—“mine to choose!”
He looked out again into the dark,
while his tempter smiled discreetly be-
hind him. “But to win—is it always to
keep, monsieur? Some time—some time
the truth must come to light. She
whom I would win must love me.
Would she love me then?’ He spoke
low, rather to the outer silence than to
the other.
“Pooh! When a woman has once
wed think you it matters whether her
husband be a hero or a rogue? When
the game is over the heifer is in the
stall, and there's the commission to
console her. Bethink, too, that the
game is honored by the governor's ap-
proval. ’Tis a crown service, done at
the solicitation of the royal governor.
We shall presently set out for Winches-
ter, where he lies with the troops.
shall guarantee this betimes ' there.
What say you?”
contemptuous.
M. Armand turned from the dark-
ness, his look suddenly changed. *‘Yes,”
he said slowly, “I will do it.”
His visitor rose with a covert twist
to his lips. “You have decided well,”
he said. “You have the assurance to
succeed too! To flutter the farthingales
you will need money, of course.”
“Money ?’ the other smiled. “And me
the Marquis de la Trouerie? Talk of
inoney between gentlemen? Plenty of
time for that—afterwurd.”
“Better and better,” said Jarrat, the
old sneer returning now that the game
was won. “It bespeaks good faith. I
hope vou shared your master’s gold
with our honest skipper, Elves. But
you will need brave clothes. Tis not
too much you look like a marquis at
present.”
M. Armand laid his finger on his lip
laughingly. ‘Ah, that is my secret.
Clothes!” He crossed to the chest, un-
locked it with a key from his pocket,
threw it open and began with rapidity
to take out coats, waistcoats, short
clothes—all of beautiful texture and
heavy with lace.
“Clever robber!” said Jarrat admir-
ingly under his breath. “A neat pluck-
ing of a uselesg cadaver!”
The secretary laughed gayly as he
took out these, with a ribbon of foreign
orders and a sword.
“Clothes!” said he again. “Let me
see which I shall wear.” He was lift-
ing the. exquisite garments. “I beg
monsieur will turn his head away for |
one moment. Commie eal!”
He called to imaginary body servants:
“Alphonse! My waistcoat! The flow-
ered ene—that is right. Now my coat.
V’la! My sword belt, Pierre. So! The
fairest lady in the world would be
pleased with that. Now M. le Capi-
taine!”
Jarrat, looking around, could scarce
repress a cry. The gray coated figure
was no more.’ In its stead a vision in-
vested in pale rose satin, with gold
chain, jeweled and smiling, stood be-
fore him.
The secretary raised the sword and
gave Jarrat the fencer’s salute.
“Louis Armand is gone away, mon-
sieur,” he said, lifting eloquent shoul-
ders. “Henceforth behold in me M, le
Marquis de la Trouerie, noble of
France, messenger of Louis XVI!”
0 Berlin chaise, in lieu of the
ruined chariot, bearing Mrs.
Tillotson and Mistress Anne on a visit
to Berkeley, drew through Ashby’s Gap,
along slopes spotted with clumps of
lilac and goldenrod.
Francis Byrd rode beside the win-
dow, for he was to join Lord Dunmore
at Winchester, whither the governor,
CHAPTER VI.
N a hazy afternoon following
Jarrat’s stroke of diplomacy a
in a burly fit of rage at his recalcitrant |
burgesses, had betaken himself to
await the gathering of troops from the
northern counties . for the expedition
against the restless Shawanee Indians
on the Scioto river.
They had met but few travelers of
quality so far to the westward—for the
most part wandering petty chapmen or
perhaps a Palatinate trader coming
from Pennsylvania. These latter drove
teams of six or eight horses wearing
jingling bells, and their huge Conesto-
ga wagons were loaded with plow irons
and with salt, lead and gunpowder for
the lower settlers. j
At the notched summit Byrd rose in
his stirrups.
“The Shennando, Anne!’ he cried.
Below, where the unbroke sunshine
spun its web, lay a gold valley clasped
in hills, The near mountain walls
stood all matted with burnished leaves
of wild ivy and bloom of chamce-
daphne, its white cup shapes stained
with purplish red. In the wooded bot-
tom the river shivered with the tum-
bling foam of steen torrents and went!
He
Jarrat’s voice was |
| four bastions, the stockade built by |
, gage.
“Ir wis Armand is gone away, Mmon- |
sieur.” he said. i
slipping soapily over ledges and be-
tween wild acres of mottled sycamore,
of drooped willow and of birch. The
sun as they rode became dull saffron
gold between the overlapped wedges of
crimsoning hills.
“Poor dear!” sighed Anne as an extra
heavy joit brought lamentation from |
her nerve racked companion. “We
shall soon be there, Aunt Mildred. Win-
chester is just beyond the next forest.”
“It's been just beyond the next for-
est for three hours!” moaned the lady.
“The colonel really must have new
springs put to the chaise. This road is
barbarous!”
“There is Winchester!” Anne ex-
claimed joyfully. “I see the flag on
the fort.” |
This, a great square fortification with |
i
i
i
Colonel Washington before the reduc- |
tion of Duquesne, was gone much to
ruin. It sat on the town’s edge, with
generous barracks rearing above the
walls and soldiery grouped before the '
entrance. Here Byrd left them to re- |
port his arrival, and the two ladies
rode to the town ordinary.
They descended to find the long par-
lor thickly set with guests and passed |
quickly through the hall to the inn !
yard, waiting disposition of their lug- |
“The place is overfull, it seems,”
Mrs. Tillotson said to the landlord.
“QOons!” he answered. ‘There are
a-plenty of beds. thcugh nigh all my |
tankards are kept well in use. Tis the |
soldiery at the fort draws them, a good
thing for the King’s Arms. The In-|
dians may go a-scalping as oft as they |
will.”
“They are all king's men within?”
asked Anne.
“Aye, a proof of my loyalty. These:
be times,” he added. scratching his
erizzle head as he went in, “when ’tis
hard to choose betwixt old and new
things, with the Whigs so hot. As for
me, though, methinks the old will out-
last my time.”
“Aunt Mildred,” called Anne delight-
edly, “look! There is my Lord Fair-
fax’s chariot!”
It stcod under the wide shed. huge
and ungainly. ‘Anne went to it and
patted the dark leather and laid her
young cheek against the purple cush-
ions. >
“He is here, then!” she cried. “I
wonder if we could see him.” Drawing
Mrs. Tillotson after her, she passed to
the wide low window and peered with-
in. It was flung half open, and through
it came glassy tinkles and a babble of
alk.
Colonial costumes were sown through
the long room, and here and there
were royal uniforms flagrantly crim-
son. Cocked hats and greatcoats lay
about on the chairs, and riding whips
were scattered on the tables.
Opposite them, against the farther
wall, Burnaby Rolph of Westham sat
squat in his oak chair where the can-
dles glinted on his gold lace, stirring
with his dress sword a punch of Ja-
maica rum in a great bowl. Beside
him, his arm flung carelessly back,
lounged Captain Foy. Now the spirit
was in his mottled, sensual face, and it
seemed to cloak a devil in scarlet.
The girl shrank back instinctively
and held her aunt’s arm more closely.
Then she turned her eyes over the as-
sembly. ®
“Mistress Anne!” exclaimed a voice
behind her.
“Oh,” she cried, turning, “Mr. Hen-
ry! How good it is to see you!”
He took her hand and bowed to Mrs.
Tillotson.
“It seems as if we had not seen you
for a year,” Anne continued, looking
up into his sallow face and then, with
a hint of approval, at his dark wig and
suit of minister’s gray.
He saw her glance and smiled a little
guizzically. “I am being fast spoiled,”
he said. “I have a plenty of coats good
enough for me, yet once I go to the con-
gress I must get a new one to please the
eye of other folk. I am on my way
back from Philadelphia now.”
“Are you lodged at the King’s Arms?”
asked the elder lady.
“At the Three Rams. Methinks the
royal tang hereabout is a bit strong for
me. I have a scent for it like a beagle
for a porcupine.”
“Lord Mairfax is here,” said Anne,
“but he has not yet seen us. We shall
surprise him.” She clapped her hands
together softly. “I wonder how he will
look. We were playing eavesdropper
just now, Aunt Mildred and I, only to
steal a view of him. Is it very dread-
ful? Come with us and look.”
“I shall leave her to you, Mr. Henry,”
said Mrs. Tillotson. “The chests are
ACCT,
in, so be not long, Anne.
in our chamber.”
As they crossed to the window Anne
stopped and looked at him question-
ingly.
“What of the congress?’ she asked.
Her voice was sharp and eager.
He shook his head a little sadly, his
brows together over his deep sunk
eyes. ‘“’Tis not the time yet. The
assembly is too young. They fear to
take a step in the dark. It is the blind
leading the blind,” he said a little bit-
terly. “There iS no open eye. Stay—
there is one. He offered them a thou-
sand men-at-arms.”
“Colonel Washington!” she said un-
der her breath.
“Aye, Colonel Washington, the best
soldier in America today. The only
one who sees. For the others, it is tem-
porize, temporize, wait the king's bet-
ter humor, Parson Duche, the rankest
Tory of them all, opening the session
with prayer.
“Why, a Philadelphia delegate nam-
ed Galloway spoke for a new plan of
reconciliaticn, with close allegiance, an
American legislature and a president
general appointed by the king. It came
nigh to stampeding the whole conven-
tion. They see only war and the rav-
age of our towns—not one rood beyond
that. They see not that the time and
people are ripe for it. They see not
that such a war cannot be fought alone
—that we shall, we must have, help
from Europe, that we must win.
“Oh,” he said with sudden passion,
his eyes burning like coals, “of such
stuff is our congress made! A multi-
tude of counselors and no leader. The
sacrifice laid waiting, but no fire!”
Anne came closer to him, her fine
face flashing.
“But this is not the last time,” she
said. “The congress will meet again.
When it does Virginia should lead
them. The colonies must look to us if it
comes to worsi. You say we have the
best soldier. 0 shall we have the best
regiments. Virginia alone of all the
rest was settled by a single people.
Tis held by gentlemen, and gentlemen
fight best!” She put out her hand and
laid it on his arm. “You can be the
leader,” she said. “You can be the
fire!” .
Thereafter neither spoke for a mo-
ment. From the stables a horse whin-
nied softly, and a gust of laughter and
the sound of a falling ale pot came
from the crowded parlor.
Then they moved forward and stood
by the open window.
“] see Lerd Fairfax,”
1 Suu wai
whispered
| Anne, “there by the door.”
The old nobleman whom her smiling
eyes sought out sat quietly apart, his
sword across his knees, with his body
gervant standing behind him. His near-
sighted glances, sent squinting, search-
ed the assembly with a lurking dis-
trust. They were king's men truly,
but not gentle like those of his own
time. He turned his face toward Foy
as the latter, pounding the table with
his sword, suddenly spoke up loudly:
“I am just come from Philadelphia,
gentlemen, where the ragamuffin con-
gress sits, and may I be flayed if I ever
saw a finer lot of noodle heads! Our
Virginian cocks-o’-the-walk were all
there. slimy from their hell broth of
treason at Williamsburg. .'0Od’s heart!
It sickens to the marrow of the bones
to see that lout, Patrick Henry, strut
about in Quakerdom.”
Anne flinched as if she had been
stung and seized Henry’s wrist. “Ch,”
she said under her breath, “come away!
"Tis shameful!”
“No; let us hear it,” he answered.
“Think you I am not used to such as
that?’ His voice trailed a slender line
of infinite scorn. “Look!”
For more than one of those there had
got up and were going out at this.
Even among those who sided with ihe
king there were many who had spoken
open disapproval of the stamp act days
and loved Henry for that if for naught
else.
Foy saw it. “Aye, let them go—let
them go,” he sneered. *’Tis time folk
knew where loyalty lay, as they know
with you and mre, my lord.”
A slow contempt went over that
rugged old face. The baron had small
love for this coupling. He despised the
blackguard confidant of Governor Dun-
more too heartily to bandy talk with
him. :
Foy filled his glass. *“’'Tis said in
Philadelphia,” he resumed, “that one
of our Virginians got on his hind legs
and told them he wished to God he
could fight it out single handed with
George. What think you of that,
Rolph?”
Lord Fairfax had deliberately turn-
ed his back upon Foy, but he shifted
in his seat now at the answer of one of
the quality.
Burnaby Rolph, Foy’s companion of
the gold lace, already heavy with the
punch and rocking tipsily in his chair,
lifted his head and laughed drunkenly.
“Sooth,” he hiccoughed. “The same
one offered to enlist a thousand men at
his own expense and march them to re-
lieve Boston.”
Anne’s face went colorless, and her
fingers clasped Henry's arm with a
force that made him wince. ‘Cruel!
Cruel!” she said, for the old baron
broke in, stammering with choler.
“The infernal rebel!” he cried, trem-
bling. “Is it gone so far then? Do they
flout their king to his face?”
The buzz in the room ceased, and all
eyes looked at the tawny old nobleman,
his features working with wrath. Hen-.
ry’s fingers were tight closed, and
Anne’s white teeth bit her under lip till
a spot of blood came upon it.
All in that room knew the old man.
Many loved him. Not a few held lease
upon his land. He was one of the last
brave barons who bore his name, for
the most part, whether crusaders or
poets, men gentle, reckless and mindful
of God—men who lived cleanly lives
and died commending their souls to
Jesus and bequeathing torches and
sheep for their funerals. He was a
man every inch of him! He blamed the
Soratnucd next week.)