I said I was, and in large numbers. After this we rode on in silence through the twilight. I glanced now and then at my companion, the boldest of our partisan leaders, and already a sharp thorn in the side of General Howe’s extended line. He was slight, well made, and dark, with some resemblance to Arthur Wynne, but with no weak lines about a mouth which, if less handsome than my cousin’s, was far more resolute. I was ready to drop from my rough steed when we began, about nine at night, to see the camp-fires of our army on either side of Skippack Creek. A halt at the pickets, and we rode on around the right flank among rude huts, rare tents, rows of spancelled horses,--we call it “hobbled” nowadays,--and so at last to a group of tents, the headquarters of the small cavalry division. “Halt!” I heard; and I literally almost tumbled off my horse, pleased to see the last of him. “This way, sir,” said McLane. “Here is my tent. There is a flask under the pine-needles. I have no feather-bed to offer. Get an hour’s rest; it is all you can have just now. When I find out the headquarters, you must ride again.” And he was gone. I found a jug of water and a towel; but my attempts to get the blood and mud out of my hair and neck were quite vain. I gave it up at last. Then I nearly emptied the flask which McLane had left me, set my sack under my head, pulled up a blanket, and in a minute was out of the world of war and sound asleep. I do not know how long my slumber lasted on my fragrant bed of pine. I heard a voice say, “Are you dead, man?” And shaken roughly, I sat up, confused, and for a moment wondering where I was. “Come,” said McLane. “Oh, leave your sack.” “No,” I said, not caring to explain why. In a moment I was in the saddle, as fresh as need be, the cool October night-wind in my face. “Where are we bound?” I asked. “Headquarters. I want you to tell your own news. Hang the man!” We had knocked down a lurching drunkard, but McLane stayed to ask no questions, and in a half-hour we pulled up in the glare of a huge fire, around which lay aides, some asleep and others smoking. A few yards away was a row of tents. McLane looked about him. “Holloa, Hamilton!” he cried to a slight young man lying at the fire. “Tell his Excellency I am here. I have news of importance.” A moment after, the gentleman, who was to become so well known and to die so needlessly, came back, and we followed him to the largest of the tents. As he lifted the fly he said, “Captain McLane to see your Excellency.” On a plain farm-house table were four candles, dimly lighting piles of neatly folded papers, a simple camp-bed, two or three wooden stools, and a camp-chest. The officer who sat bareheaded at the table pushed aside a map and looked up. I was once more in the presence of Washington. Both McLane and I stood waiting--I a little behind. “Whom have you here, sir?”