“This fair little lady is both his rescuer and protector,” replied the grandfather. “And who may you be, little mistress?” asked the commander-in-chief. Dolly made a neat little curtsy, for those were the days of good manners, and she was a proper little damsel. “I am Dolly Duane, your Excellency,” she said, “daughter of Mr. James Duane of the Congress.” “Duane!” exclaimed the Colonel; “Well, well, little one, I did not think a Phillipse would ever acknowledge himself debtor to a Duane, but now do I gladly do it. Bear my compliments to your father, sweet Mistress Dolly, and tell him that his old enemy, Phillipse, of Phillipsbourg, will never forget the kindly aid of his gentle little daughter, who has this day restored a lost lad to a sorrowing grandfather. And let me thus show my gratitude for your love and service,” and the very large man, stooping in all courtesy before the little girl, laid his hand in blessing on her head, and kissed her fair young face. “A rare little maiden, truly,” said gallant Sir Guy: “and though I have small cause to favor so hot an enemy of the king as is Mr. James Duane, I admire his dutiful little daughter; and thus would I, too, render her love and service,” and the gleaming scarlet and gold-laced arms of the courtly old commander encircled fair Mistress Dolly, and a hearty kiss fell upon her blushing cheeks. But she was equal to the occasion. Raising herself on tiptoe, she dropped a dainty kiss upon the General’s smiling face, and said, “Let this, sir, be America’s good-bye kiss to your Excellency.” “A right royal salute,” said Sir Guy. “Mr. De Lancy, bid the band-master give us the farewell march,” and to the strains of appropriate music the commander-in-chief and his staff passed down to the boats and the little lord of Phillipse Manor waved Mistress Dolly a last farewell. Then the Red Cross of St. George, England’s royal flag, came fluttering down from its high staff on the north bastion, and the last of the rear-guard wheeled toward the slip. But Cunningham, the provost-marshal, still angered by the thought of his discomfiture at Day’s tavern, declared roundly that no rebel flag should go up that staff in sight of King George’s men. “Come lively now, you blue jackets,” he shouted, turning to some of the sailors from the fleet. “Unreeve the halyards, quick; slush down the pole; knock off the stepping-cleats! Then let them run their rag up if they can.” His orders were quickly obeyed. The halyards were speedily cut, the stepping-cleats knocked from the staff, and the tall pole covered with grease, so that none might climb it. And with this final act of unsoldierly discourtesy, the memory of which has lived through a hundred busy years, the provost-marshal left the now liberated city.