“But with my thanks,” he said, “is coupled a request, for I must ask you for a service greater than any you have yet done me. I beg that you speak no further ill of that heavy-hearted man who leads our armies, who with troops deserting, money lacking, food and clothing scarce and with winter close upon him, never admits defeat, and will still lead his men to victory. Not because he is merely a friend of mine do I ask you to abstain from evil-speaking of him in my house, but because he is the friend of all of you, fighting for you—and you—and you,” here certain of the guests hung their heads for, with unerring finger Stephen had pointed to the worst offenders, “and will you, by your idle words make his task heavier?” It was a sober company that said good night and filed out through the great doorway. A dozen, at least, of the men present had been in Washington’s army, but, having enlisted for only a few months, had come home at the end of that time, vowing that they would risk their lives no longer in a hopeless cause. Among this number was David Thurston, although he had better excuse than the others, since his feeble old mother, who dwelt in Hopewell, was in sore need of his support and aid. Early the next morning, before it was yet light, there was a tapping at the silver knocker and Clotilde, slipping down with a candle in her hand, opened the door and found David Thurston on the steps. It was a raw, cold November dawn with gusts of rain and a sharp, merciless wind. Yet there stood David and, on the driveway below, mounted on shivering horses, were twelve village lads, muffled in their high-collared homespun coats and fur caps. “Tell the master when he awakes,” said David hurriedly, “that we are off to the wars again, to fight for General Washington, since his need is so great. Say that when we heard Master Sheffield’s words and saw him grown old and broken in this struggle for Liberty, we were ashamed to sit warm and comfortable at home and let others win our battles for us. And, Mistress Clotilde,” he added, his voice breaking, “will you look to my poor old mother now and again? I doubt that she will be here when I return, for we are not coming back until every redcoat has been swept from America.” He pressed her hand in a rough, trembling clasp of farewell, strode down the steps, mounted his horse and, followed by the others, rode away into the face of the whistling, sleety wind. Among the group that pressed forward with bent shoulders and bowed heads, Clotilde recognised the broad backs of three of the German prisoners, who had given up their chance of exchange and return to their own homes, and were now to fight, for the first time in their lives perhaps, on a side of their own choosing.