It was at this moment that the gate slammed and Miles came hurrying up the path to greet Clotilde and Stephen. When he turned to Gerald, the faces of both were a study, since the one remembered keenly the moment when his foolhardiness had nearly caused his death as a spy, while the other had the unhappy knowledge that, surrounded though he was by comfort and kindness, he was now the prisoner who had then been the captor. The moment of confusion was not long, however, for Clotilde began telling pell-mell the reason of that resemblance that had puzzled them all. Having finished, she began to ply Miles with questions as to all that had befallen him during that season of suffering at Valley Forge. The thought of all that the patriots had undergone stirred Miles to what was, for him, an unusual flow of speech. “The memory of that winter will last all of us to our dying day, and after,” he said. “There were bitter cruel winds that cut through our threadbare coats as though they had been made of gossamer, there were steep slippery paths where our benumbed feet stumbled and the ice tore our worn-out shoes and gashed us to the bone. Our little huts of logs and earth were more like the burrows of animals than the abiding places of humans.” “And all the time,” said Clotilde, “the British army was so near by, and so warm and comfortable in Philadelphia.” “Yes,” replied Miles, “we could climb to the hilltop and see the smoke of the city and know that it was there the English soldiers were spending the winter in pleasant ease. My heart used to fill with bitterness, at times, and I would wonder how it could be that all should be so fair for them while such hardship was meted out to us.” “Nevertheless,” commented Stephen, “you had a great man to lead you through your time of suffering.” Miles’ eyes shone at the recollection. “We had indeed,” he said, “and there were no such thoughts could assail me when I came near General Washington. I used to meet him sometimes walking the snowy path before his little, rough stone house, or I would see him through the window, writing letters in the cold bare room. I would see that his grey, drawn face was growing gaunter and older every day and my heart would burn in me to do my utmost for such a man. There was not one of his soldiers but loved him just as I did. Our shoes and clothes were worn and our strength was wasted but had he asked us to walk to Jericho and back for his simple pleasure we would have done it joyfully. It is the love of the soldiers for General Washington that has fought this war, it is that spirit of his, sombre, slow, but never turning back, that will lead us to victory in the end. I would that my words were not so futile, that I could make you see what manner of man he is.”