From the vantage-ground of a projecting “stoop” our young friends had indulged in irreverent laughter, and the marshal’s quick ears caught the sound. Fuming with rage and seeking some one to vent his anger on, he rushed up the “stoop” and bade his guard drag down the culprits. “What pestilent young rebels have we here?” he growled. “Who are you?” He started as they gave their names. “Livingston? Clinton? Duane?” he repeated. “Well, well--a rare lot this of the rebel brood! And who is yon young bantling in velvet and ruffles?” “You must not stop us, sir,” said the boy, facing the angry marshal. “I am the little lord of the manor, and my grandfather is Colonel Phillipse. Sir Guy Carleton is waiting for me.” “Well, well,” exclaimed the surprised marshal; “here’s a fine to-do! A Phillipse in this rebel lot! What does it mean? Have ye kidnapped the lad? Here may be some treachery. Bring them along!” and with as much importance as if he had captured a whole corps of Washington’s dragoons, instead of a few harmless children, the young prisoners were hurried off, followed by an indignant crowd. Dolly was considerably frightened, and dark visions of the stocks, the whipping-post, and the ducking-stool by the Collect pond rose before her eyes. But Cousin Ned whispered: “Don’t be afraid, Dolly--’twill all be right”; and Master Clinton even sought to argue with the marshal. “There are no rebels now, sir,” he said, “since your king has given up the fight. You yourselves are rebels, rather, if you restrain us of our freedom. I know your king’s proclamation word for word. It says: ‘We do hereby strictly charge and command all our officers, both at sea and land, and all other our subjects whatsoever, to forbear all acts of hostility, either by sea or land, against the United States of America, their vassals or subjects, under the penalty of incurring our highest displeasure.’ Wherefore, Sir,” concluded this wise young pleader, “if you keep us in unlawful custody, you do brave your king’s displeasure.” “You impudent young rebel----” began Cunningham; but the “little lord” interrupted him with: “You shall not take us to jail, sir, I will tell my grandfather, and he will make Sir Guy punish you.” And upon this the provost-marshal, whose wrath had somewhat cooled, began to fear that he might, perhaps, have exceeded his authority, and ere long, with a sour look and a surly word, he set the young people free. * * * * *