For several weeks after the departure of the soldiers an expectant hush settled over Hillsboro’-town—the reaction of the mustering and drilling that had gone before. So few men were left in the town that Janet Cameron one day dressed herself in the garb of a nun, and, with the feigned humility of folded hands and downcast eyes, went calling upon her companions “of the convent town.” A ripple of merriment followed in her wake, for she made a most quaint figure. But the Reverend Hugh McAden, meeting her upon the corner, so reprimanded her for her levity that she ran home in tears and hid her gray frock and hood in the garret. Joscelyn sobered her own face and made the girl’s peace with the reverend gentleman with such explanations as at last seemed to him reasonable. But Janet went on no more masquerading tours.

With both the work and the gayety of the town interrupted, there was nothing of moment to engage attention but the news that came once in a while from the camps and battle-fields. The interest in this was shared by every one, so that all the tidings, whether by message or letter, were looked upon as public property. News that came by word of mouth was cried out from the church steps or the court-house door, for no good citizen wished to keep his knowledge to himself. Thus it fell out when it became known that a missive had come from Richard to Joscelyn, that a score or more of women gathered about her door to learn the contents. She came out to them upon the veranda, her saucy beauty enhanced by the scarlet bodice, her eyes full of laughter.

“Read you Master Clevering’s letter?—As you will, Mistress Strudwick; you may perchance find more of interest in it than I,” she answered with that sweet courtesy she showed ever to her elders. And so having enthroned Mistress Strudwick upon the wicker bench of the porch, while the others disposed themselves upon the steps and the grass of the terrace which sloped directly to the street, she unfolded her letter and cleared her throat pompously as is the manner of public speakers.

“I pray you have patience with me, good ladies,” she said, “if so I read but slowly. Master Clevering ever had trouble with his spelling; and as for the writing, ’tis as though a fly had half drowned itself in the inkhorn and then crawled upon the page.”

Then did she proceed to read them the letter from its greeting to its close, pausing now and then to laboriously spell out a word. There were accounts of the life at Valley Forge, of the drilling and the picket duty and the ceaseless watching of the enemy. Then there was an exultant description of the victory at far-off Stillwater, as it was given to him by a fellow-soldier who had been a participant.

“Why, dear me, is Master Clevering to be made commander-in-chief of the American forces, that his Majesty’s troops should yield arms to him?” Joscelyn broke off to ask with assumed innocence. “I heard naught of his rapid promotion.”

“Come, come, Joscelyn, leave off sneering at Richard and read us the rest.”

She laughed as she turned the page.

(“A pair of wits! What can that mean? Oh, I ask your pardon, Mistress Nash; it is ‘mits,’ not ‘wits.’ Master Clevering hath so queer a handwriting.)

There were other messages and news items which the girl read, and then came the signature.

“There follows here a postscript which perchance some of you may help me to unravel,” she added; and then, with the air of a town-crier announcing his errand, she proceeded:—

She paused and puckered her brow in a perplexed frown. “Now who, I pray you, is the girl of his heart? Cannot some of you help me to guess?”

“Methinks ’twould be an easy task for you,” laughed Mistress Strudwick.

“Me?” repeated Joscelyn, still with that air of perplexed innocence. “Nay, he was ever so full of jokes and quarrels that it never came to me he had a heart.”

“Mayhap it is Dorothy Graham he means,” said a voice in the crowd.

“More like ’tis Patience Ruffin.”

“Or little Janet Cameron—he set much store by her.”

“Nay,” said a teasing voice, “Janet is going to be a nun; such messages to her would not be proper.” Whereat there was a general laugh.

“Whoever she is, ’tis a pity she should miss her love message through her lover’s obscurity and our ignorance,” said Joscelyn. “What think you, Mistress Strudwick, were it not a good plan to post this page upon the banister here that all who pass may read? In this wise we may find the maid.”

With a pin from her bodice, and using her high-heeled slipper—which she drew off for the purpose—as a hammer, she tacked the paper to the banister. But it had not fluttered twice in the wind ere Betty had snatched it down.

“Shame on you, Joscelyn, for so exposing my brother’s letter!”

“Oh, I meant not to anger you, Betty,” returned the girl, sweetly, as she took the letter again and thrust it into her bodice. “Since you like not this plan, we will have the town-crier search out the mysterious damsel and bring her here to read for herself. Let us see how the cry would run: ‘Wanted, wanted, the girl of Richard Clevering’s heart to read his greeting on Mistress Cheshire’s porch!’”

She stooped to buckle her shoe, her foot on the round of Mistress Strudwick’s chair, and so they saw not the laughter in her eyes. She knew well that Betty would not fail to write Richard of the scene, and she already fancied his anger; she could have laughed aloud. “Methinks I have paid you back a score, Master Impertinence,” she said to herself, and then fell to talking to Dorothy Graham until the company dispersed. That night Betty, running in on a message from her mother, found Joscelyn using the fragments of the ill-fated letter to curl the long hair of Gyp, the house-dog, and she went home to add an indignant postscript to the missive to her brother, over which she had spent the afternoon. But even as she wrote she knew he would not heed her advice; and sure enough, in course of time another letter came to the house on the terrace:—

But Joscelyn did no such thing. Instead, she thrust the letter out of sight, and refused to read it even to Betty, who had only half forgiven her for her former offence against her brother.

As the days passed, however, Betty was full of concern for the privations Richard endured, and out of sheer force of habit she carried her plaint to Joscelyn.

“Richard drills six hours a day, rain or shine,” she said, with an expostulatory accent on the numeral.

“Dear me, is he that hard of learning? Methinks even I could master the art of shouldering a gun and turning out my toes in less time than that. It seems not so difficult a matter.”

“And even after all this,” Betty went on, taking no heed of the other’s laugh, “he may not rest at night, but must needs do picket duty or go on reconnoitring expeditions. And he hath not tasted meat in two weeks, not since he hath been in camp.”

“What a shame! A soldier such as Master Clevering should sit among the fleshpots and sleep all night in a feather bed.”

“I knew you would laugh,” Betty said with sudden heat. “You treat Richard as though he counted for naught; but the truth is, Joscelyn, you are not half good enough for him.”

And Betty flung out of the house with her chin in the air, while Joscelyn kissed her hand to her with playful courtesy, but with a genuine admiration for her spirit.

But she softened not her heart toward Richard. Because of his impatience with her opinions, and the personal nature of their disputes and oppositions, he had come to typify to her the very core and heart of the insurrection. She knew this was foolish, that he was in truth but an insignificant part of the general turmoil; and yet he was the prominent figure that always came before her when the talk turned on the Revolution, no matter in what company she was. His masterful ways of wooing and cool assumption of her preference also grated harshly upon her, and even in his absence her heart was often hot against him. She listened indifferently to his mother’s and Betty’s praise of him.

Her position in the community was rather a peculiar one; for while many of her companions disliked her tenets, they loved her for her merry ways and grace of manner, and so they refused to listen to some of the more rabid members who counselled ostracism. Her mother, too, was a strong bond between her and the public; for when the patriotic women of the town met together to sew and knit for the absent soldiers, Mistress Cheshire often went with them, and no needle was swifter than hers. It was her neighbours she was helping; the soldiers were a secondary consideration. She was not going to quarrel with Ann Clevering and Martha Strudwick because their husbands had fallen out with the king; that was his Majesty’s affair, not hers, and she did not believe in meddling in other people’s quarrels. But Joscelyn shut herself in her room on these days and read her English history; or else, being deft with her pencil, made numerous copies of the historical pictures of King George and his ministers, which were pinned up on the railing of her balcony as a new testimonial of her loyalty. But no sooner was her back turned than some passer-by tore them away, sometimes leaving instead a written threat of retaliation that made her mother’s heart cold with a nameless dread.

It was in the end of March, some six weeks after the departure of the troops, that sad news came from the south. Where the Pedee widened toward its mouth a blow had been struck for liberty, and Uncle Clevering had fallen in a charge with Sumter.

There had been a body of Tories to disperse, a wagon-train to capture, and despatches to intercept; and Sumter’s troops, knowing this, rode all the windy night through moonshine and shadow to surprise the enemy in the daffodil dawn of that March morning. Swift, silent, resistless, like spectres of the gray forest, they came upon the astonished Redcoats—and kept their tryst with Victory! The prisoners, the wagon-train, the despatches were theirs; but one of them had ridden to his rendezvous with death. The elder Clevering’s horse was led back through all the long miles to Hillsboro’ with the stirrups crossed over the saddle; and Ann Clevering sat in her house, bereft. Each day Martha Strudwick and other friends went to her with words of kindly commiseration; but it was Mistress Cheshire who did most to comfort the afflicted widow, so that these two were drawn yet closer together with that bond of sympathy that comes of a mutual loss. And in Betty’s or Mistress Clevering’s presence Joscelyn never again talked tauntingly of English prowess, since it was an English bullet that had wrought such sorrow to her friends. But even this death, shocking as it was to her, in no way shook her allegiance to the cause she held to be right.

CHAPTER V.

“Of Betty Clevering! Red roses for Betty Clevering!”

“They are not all red. See this one; it is near as buff as her own party colour.”

The girl nodded, smiling at his eagerness. He walked the length of the room, then stopped before her abruptly.

“Joscelyn, I leave for the front to-night.”

“I did not know—”

“Yes; I have but waited orders from Lord Cornwallis. This morning a messenger brought them, and I am to report at once. His lordship has been most kind because of my father’s friendship when they were boys, and I am appointed aide upon his staff.”

She held out her hand impulsively. “’Tis what we hoped for you.”

“But,” he went on hurriedly, “I cannot go without first speaking with Mistress Betty. Methinks I cannot fight against her people without first asking her pardon. Oh, of course, that sounds foolish; but will you help me, Joscelyn? It would be useless for me to go to her house; the door would be shut in my face.”

“And you want me—”

“I want you to ask her here now, and then go away upstairs like the dear girl you are, and give me a chance.”

“Aunt Clevering would never forgive me.”

“She need not know; think up some excuse for sending for Betty.”

“And Betty herself might be angry.”

“Not with you. She may turn me away. I have small hope, for she has always been so shy, and public questions and private quarrels have kept our families so far apart. You know how seldom we meet; but speak with her I must, for who knows whether I shall ever come back? My departure to-night must, of course, be in secret, for were my intentions known, I should be apprehended and held, mayhap hanged for treason. This is my one chance to see Betty; you are going to send for her, Joscelyn?”

She hesitated: she hated deception, and she loved her Aunt Clevering. Then there came to her the memory of Betty’s face when she had teased her about Eustace, and her own resolution to be the girl’s friend where so much heartache and opposition awaited her. This was her opportunity; if she refused it, she would be abetting the general harshness the girl was likely to encounter. She left the room without a word, and presently Eustace saw through the window her little maid dart across the street and into the opposite gate.

“Thank you,” he said jubilantly, taking her hand when she reëntered the room.

“Wait and see if she comes. She is here but seldom these days; partly because she is still angry with me about Richard, and partly because of the sorrow that came to her a month ago. She may not accept my invitation.”

But even as she spoke, a clear voice cried in the hall: “Joscelyn, Joscelyn, are you upstairs?”

“Nay, I am here,” and she met the girl at the door and drew her into the parlour.

Eustace came forward smiling. “Now, Mistress Betty, I call this a lucky chance to have dropped in here when you were coming to sit with Joscelyn. Fortune does sometimes favour even so humble a subject as I. Let me move this chair for you.”

Betty’s cheeks had reddened faintly, and she glanced quickly from him to Joscelyn, but found in neither face any confirmation of a suspicion that stirred in her mind. Joscelyn was turning over a great pile of coloured worsteds.

“You promised to help me sort the colours for my new cross-stitch—you have such a fine eye for contrasts. But since Eustace is here, methinks we had best put it off; men are so impatient over such matters,” she said.

“Nay, nay,” he protested; “you slander me along with the rest of my fellow-men. Mistress Betty here shall prove it, for I will hold those tangled skeins for her, and she will find that I am patience itself.”

“Very well, we will put you to the test. What think you, Betty, will this green do for the flower stems?—You like that shade better?—Hold out your hands, Eustace. Now, Betty, wind that while I find a blue for the flowers.”

Never was anything brought about more naturally and deftly. Almost before she was aware, Betty found herself seated in front of Eustace, who was making great show of resignation.

“How does a man sometimes fall from the high estate of his manhood and dignity and become no better than a wooden frame whereon to hang a length of yarn,” he said, laughing; then coloured with pleasure as Betty bent toward the table and put her face close to the roses lying there.

“Ah, how sweet! I have only a few buds, as yet. Master Singleton brought them to you, Joscelyn?”

“On the contrary, he said expressly they were not for me. There is no blue in this lot of wools, I must have left it upstairs. ’Tis a shame I have to mount those steps again. I hope you will have that skein wound by the time I find the blue one.” At the door she paused and looked back archly at Eustace; then, blowing a kiss to Betty’s unconscious back, she went away, shutting the door softly behind her.

“God bless you, Betty dear; I hope I am acting for your happiness,” she said to herself on the stairs.

Betty added to her soft ball in unruffled silence for a minute. Then, glancing up, she met Eustace’s gaze, and her hand faltered in its winding.

“Do you know for whom I brought the roses?” he asked, bending toward her.

“Stay, Master Singleton, you are dropping the skein—and you promised to be so patient.”

“True, true; I have it all in a mess. Wind your ball up closer that we may pass it through this loop.”

And so they set themselves, with here a turn and there a backward twist, to that old task of unravelling the snarled skein. Now and then their fingers touched, and both hands trembled and both faces reddened; Eustace’s from the exquisite pleasure of the contact, for never before had they been so alone, so near together, and out of pure joy he would have prolonged the happiness. But the shadows were already lengthening backward to the east, and with nightfall he must be away. And so when Betty’s little hand was again near to his he seized it in both of his.

“Betty—sweetheart—I love you!”

The thread was snapped apart, and the ball fell to the floor, but he held her hands fast.

“Nay, you must listen to me, for this night I go away to bear my share in the war, perchance to give my life for the cause I hold to be right. But before I go I must tell you what is in my heart—tell you that I love you as a man loves the woman to whom he gives his name, with whom he leaves his honour. And not only must I tell you that, but I must hear you say that, believing as I do, you do not blame me for going to the war. You do not blame me, do you?”

Her hands lay still in his, but her head was bent so low he could not see into her eyes.

“This war means everything to me, for the enemies of the king against whom I shall have to fight are my neighbours and acquaintances, and, worse still, the near and dear relatives of my love. Under such circumstances you do not think I would fight save from principle?”

“No.”

“And you do not condemn the step I am taking, even though it sets me against your dear ones? I cannot see things as they do.”

She lifted her head and looked at him squarely for a moment. “Every man should follow the dictates of his conscience.”

“I knew your heart would recognize the justice of my case. And when it is all over, and I come back, you will not let this stand between us—you will be my wife?”

But she drew her hand away, shaking her head with downcast eyes, and his pleading was futile. “To promise you would be to go against my mother, and it were undutiful in me to add to her present distress; now that my father is dead and my brother gone to the war, my mother has only me to comfort her.”

“Then at least let me carry away the glad assurance that you care for me; that will suffice, for, if you love me, you will wait for me.”

“You—you will find me waiting,” she whispered; and then her lips trembled under the kiss that he put upon them.

But there was a sound at the door, a warning rattle of the knob, and out of consideration for her he let her go.

“Aunt Clevering is calling you, Betty,” Joscelyn said, but she did not enter. “She’ll be there directly, Aunt Clevering,” she called from the front door. And presently, when Betty passed her with Eustace’s colours flaming in her cheeks and his roses on her breast, she knew that Redcoat and not Continental had won this battle in her parlour.

“She would not promise me,” Eustace said, wringing her hand; “but I am so happy, for there are some things that are better than a spoken promise.”

CHAPTER VI.

Thus they heard the news for which they had been mustered into line—France had acknowledged the independence of the colonies, and would send them substantial martial aid. Franklin had won, and the fleur-de-lys was to float beside the star-studded banner of the young republic fighting for her life.

When the proclamation was read, a salute of thirteen guns boomed out, each the symbolic voice of a State pledging allegiance to the new alliance. Down the lines went the rattle of musketry, and there rolled up a shout that filled the blue hollow of the sky with its hoarse echo.

“Long live the king of France!”

“Long live the new Republic!”

“Hip—hip—huzza!”

It was as if the prisoned joy of months had broken into song. Scars and tatters and hunger, pains and aching wounds were forgotten, and only the radiance of peace and freedom yet to come shone in the dazzled upturned eyes.

“Long live the lilies of France!”

When it was all done Richard sat down to write by the light of a pine knot one of those letters that Joscelyn hated.

She would not answer the epistle, of course—she never did; but it was such a relief to put his feelings into words. That she would be angry at some of his words he knew, but it made him laugh to think of the disdainful lips and flashing eyes.

He must have laughed aloud, for a man stretched upon the ground suddenly asked him what the joke was.

“Oh, just a passing thought,” Richard answered. “A man has to think funny things to keep alive in this state of inactivity into which we are called.”

“You would like a little excitement?”

“Indeed I should. ’Tis now six weeks since I came into camp, and only that one secret trip with you down the river has broken the monotony of drilling and mounting guard.”

The man, a Virginian named Dunn, one of the most daring and capable scouts of the army, smoked a moment in silence.

“How would you like to witness the festivities in honour of General Howe before he leaves Philadelphia?”

Richard’s eyes lit up. “Take me with you, Dunn!” he cried, with great eagerness.

“H-u-s-h!” said Dunn. “Nothing is arranged yet; but there will be much to learn of the enemy’s intended movements, and when would there fall so fine a chance as these days of festivity when wine and tongues will both run free? If I can so fix it, you shall go with me; you suit me better than Price, for you are quicker to catch a cue. You have got just one fault for this kind of business—you are always so d—n sure of yourself and your own powers; a little humility would improve you.”

Richard laughed and wrung his hand. “You can knock me down for a conceited coxcomb, only take me with you.”

For a few days the French alliance was the all-absorbing theme of talk; and La Fayette’s laughing prophecy that France’s recognition of a republic would one day come home to her seemed, to these aroused sons of Liberty, like an augury that the countries of the Old World would one day follow in the paths their swords were blazing out—the paths that lead over thrones and crowns to self-government. But Richard soon had other things whereof to think. Dunn was planning his expedition into the lines of the enemy; but two weeks went by before he came to Richard’s tent and beckoned him aside.

“To-night at eight, by the pine tree down the road. I have spoken to your captain, so there will be no hubbub about your absence. Bring no arms but your pistols.”

Under the young May moon Richard kept his tryst with the veteran scout, as eager as a lover to meet his mistress.

“Sit down,” said Dunn. “I shall tell you my mission, for I do not work by halves. Sometimes an assistant has to act on his own responsibility, and he spoils sport if he does not know the plan. First, we are to find out when the British are to move, what is their destination, and by what road they will go. If an attack is to be made before-hand on our camp, we must bring back the plans. If there is a chance for our men to strike a blow, we must know it.”

“And how are we to learn these things?”

“By keeping our ears and eyes open and our wits sharpened. It will take cool heads and steady nerves. We are to gain entrance into the city as ordinary labourers. In this bundle are the necessary clothes. Circumstances must govern us after we are there. Now to get ready.”

It took but a few minutes to transform the soldiers into workmen, so far as dress makes a transformation. Leaving their uniforms in the hollow of a tree, where Dunn’s man was to search for them, they mounted their horses and set off by an unused road toward the distant city. The direct route would have given them about twenty miles of travel, but the numerous diversions they were obliged to make added a fourth of that distance to their journey, so there was a gray streak of dawn in the sky ahead of them when they drew rein at a lonely cabin on the edge of a wood, beyond which were the cleared fields of a farm that skirted the city. On the door of this hut Dunn struck three sharp taps, then one, then two. After the signal was repeated the door was cautiously opened by a man within, who, upon being assured of the identity of the newcomers, bade them enter; and Richard found himself in an humble room whose rafters were hung with drying herbs that gave out a pungent odour.

In a few words Dunn explained to the man, whom he called George, something of their purpose.

“Well, I was expecting you. My vegetable cart starts in two hours; one of you can go with me, the other must straggle on behind, for two would be more than is safe with one cart. My daily pass allows me an assistant.”

When their horses had been hidden in an out-house, Richard and Dunn threw themselves down and slept heavily until the carter aroused them. The smell of breakfast, along with his eagerness for the coming adventure, made Richard quick to answer the summons, and in a short time the three were on their way. It had been arranged that Richard, who knew nothing of the city, should go on with the carter, and that Dunn should take his chances and follow. But in the public road, where other carts were beginning to appear, they overtook a black-eyed lass carrying a huge basket of eggs. It took but a few glances, flashed coquettishly across the road, to bring Richard to her side. There were some gallant speeches, a protest that ended in a pouting laugh, and then the two went down the road like old friends, merry with the carelessness of youth, she swinging her hands idly, he carrying her basket. Thus they passed, with small parley, the picket posts, for the guards knew the girl who came and went daily with her market wares.

Once they were in the city, Richard bade adieu to his companion, and, after some little search, joined Dunn behind the market-house, the latter having slipped in by an obscure alley. They soon knew from the talk on the streets and the general air of bustle that the fête they had come to witness was to begin on the water, so they repaired to the pier above the city and waited for a chance to slip into the crowd. The opportunity came through a boatman, who wanted two men to help row his barge down to the appointed landing. They readily bargained to go, and took their places in the boat, which was soon filled with a gay crowd of ladies and their escorts, all in gala humour and attire. Richard, sitting in front of Dunn, forgot all about his oar as he watched the flutter of the brilliant throng, the glowing faces, the flashing smiles. Never before had he seen so many magnificent costumes or such an array of masculine and feminine beauty. But there was one face that seemed strangely familiar—a face with dark eyes and tropical colouring of olive and carmine. Where had he seen it? Nowhere, he felt sure, for a girl like that was not to be forgotten. And yet his eyes went back to her as to a friend. Who, then, was it she resembled? He was searching his memory for a cue when suddenly something struck him sharply on the arm, and Dunn said in a whisper:—

“Mind your oar and quit gaping that way; the whole company will be noticing it directly, and coming over to examine you, and that’ll be a pretty kettle of fish!”

Richard picked up his oar quickly, ashamed of his defection; but for the life of him he could not keep his eyes from the dark, vivacious face across the boat, until her escort, a splendidly dressed officer of Howe’s staff, laughed and said to her:—

“I told you all hearts would be at your feet this day, and see, even the boatman over there is worshipping from afar.”

The half whisper reached Richard, and as the girl turned toward him their eyes met. She laughed, and then threw up her head with a disdainful toss, turning back to her companion. But the gesture had cleared the doubt in Richard’s mind. It was Mary Singleton over again, and the vivid likeness was to her. This must be her Philadelphia cousin, of whom he had often heard. She would know much of the plans of the British, for her father was an intimate of Howe, and she herself said to be betrothed to his chief of staff. This much Richard remembered from Joscelyn’s talk, and glad he was to recall the idle chatter which at the time had bored him, since it kept him from more personal conversation. It was of Joscelyn and himself that he had always wanted to talk; but she had declared lightly that neither subject suited her, for her own charms were too patent to need comment, and his were too few to bear exposure, and had gone on to tell him of the Singletons, whom she knew through Mary’s letters. A plan that seemed like the gauzy web of a fairy tale began to weave itself in Richard’s mind as he bent to his oar.

The river was full of boats of every description, from barges like the one he was in, to giddy cockleshells that seemed a dare to Providence as they careened and dipped and darted in and out among the larger craft, like monster dragonflies rather than conveyances for human beings. And each one, great and small, was packed from prow to stern with a laughing, singing crowd in festal array. As the gay fleet approached the appointed landing-place, it passed in line between two men-of-war strung with flags and sun-kissed garlands; and then, amid the music of hautboys, the braying of trumpets, and the booming of guns, the company landed and proceeded to the grounds laid out for the tourney which was to be the chief event of the day. It was a dazzling picture upon which the afternoon sun looked down. In the centre stretched the tourney ring, around which beautiful women, gorgeously gowned, sat on mimic thrones to watch their gallants—tricked out like knights of old—contend for the honours. The multi-hued throng of spectators filled out the picture which had for its foreground the river with its decorated craft, and for its background the deep green of the forest, with the city’s clustered roofs to one side. Thousands of flags and garlands and streamers of ribbon tossed in the wind, while the music, like the invisible incense of pleasure, drifted like the sunshine everywhere.

And the man for whom this was all planned sat on his daïs, the embodiment of soldierly bearing, of courtesy and gratification; for this splendid demonstration told unequivocally the appreciation in which the army held him, notwithstanding the implied disapprobation of the home government in so promptly accepting his resignation, tendered, no doubt, in an hour of chagrin and hurt pride at the strictures passed upon him at home.

As soon as the barge was tied to its pier, Richard and Dunn mingled with the throng, bent on seeing the sport. Richard longed to become a part of the merry-making, but knew he must be content to be a spectator. He looked about carefully for the black-eyed girl, and finally located her through a remark overheard in the crowd:—

“Mistress Singleton occupies the place of honour on the right of the master of ceremonies.”

And when he had pushed his way farther on, he saw her. So he had been right; this was Ellen Singleton, the fiancée of Grant, one of the most accomplished officers under Howe. All the afternoon he lingered in her vicinity, but unable to advance in any way the mad scheme he had in mind. When darkness fell, the company repaired to the hall where the tourney victor crowned his queen, and the dancers took their places to spend the time until supper was announced. More than four hundred guests sat down to that table, over which twelve hundred waxen candles shed their radiance. As Richard leaned into one of the low windows, absorbed in the scene, he noticed that Grant was whispering earnestly to his fair companion, and that she looked serious, even alarmed. Before he had finished wondering at the cause, some one touched him on the arm, and he turned to find Dunn at his elbow.

“Hist!” said the latter; “something is afoot. Couriers have come, and General Howe spoke with them apart in the anteroom, and you should have seen his face light up as he listened. It is, of course, something about our troops. I heard La Fayette’s name, but can get no particulars. Grant is leaving the table; keep him in sight if possible while I try the couriers.”

Mistress Singleton also had risen, and was leaving the room on Grant’s arm. Quitting the window hastily, Richard was at the door when they came out of the hall.

“I must speak with you,” Grant said earnestly, in a low tone, to the girl on his arm. The lawn was practically deserted, and the mimic thrones erected for the tourney stood unoccupied in the blended light of the moon and flambeaux. “The general’s pavilion yonder is our best place. There are some ladies and gentlemen on the far side, but at the corner, there where the shadow falls, no one is sitting. Come.”

He led her across the open space, and Richard saw them take their places in the dim light, the girl’s white dress marking the spot even from where he stood. He followed slowly, not knowing what next to do, for he was too new in the rôle of scout to willingly play at eavesdropping, so he stood irresolutely near the pavilion watching the quiet couple at one side and the bevy of laughing revellers at the other. Evidently Mistress Singleton was much agitated, for her hand rose in frequent gesture, and her voice was a trifle shrill. Presently two young men from the other party came down the pavilion steps, and one of them dropped his long military cloak in the shadow at the end of the step, saying he would find it again after the dance. Then they passed on. Behind them two soldiers came at quickstep, and Richard heard these words:—

“Grant’s division has the orders. Quick work of the whole crew of rebels.”

In the light of the flambeaux at the banquet-hall door Richard saw Dunn, and hastened to join him. Putting together what they had gathered, they made out that La Fayette had left Valley Forge with a body of troops, intending to do whatever mischief he might, but that his movement had been discovered, and Howe was planning to capture his whole force, and Grant was to be detailed for the work. But what his course would be, when he would set out, and what force would be with him were things yet to learn. However, these were the very things La Fayette would want to know. Dunn was waiting for Howe to leave the banquet-hall, so Richard went back to his vigil near the pavilion. As he approached, Grant was coming down the steps.

“I shall not be gone twenty minutes. You are quite safe, for Mistress Hamlin is just behind you, and I’ll send one of the officers to sit with you. Wait for me, for it may be our last meeting.”

Evidently the girl consented, for she kept her place while he sprang down the steps and strode toward the lighted hall.

The wild plan Richard had cherished all day was to speak with this girl on equal terms. It might cost him his life, but a very dare-devil spirit of adventure took possession of him. Now was the hour of which he had dimly dreamed. He did not stop to think, but stooping into the shadow, he snatched up the long cloak lying there and wrapped it about him, turning up the collar jauntily. Then with his heart thumping against his ribs, but with a smile on his face, he came to the side of the steps nearest the girl and went boldly up into the pavilion.

CHAPTER VII.