“I am ashamed to tell you of the other reason, Sir Henry,” I demurred, with as near the proper shade of wounded self-esteem as I could simulate. “It touches me very nearly, and in a tender spot. You know, without my telling of it, how we Pages, my father’s family, have given everything to the cause which is even now tipping in the balance of defeat?” “I do know it,” he replied, somewhat grimly I thought. “With that in view, Sir Henry, imagine my feelings as a gentleman and an officer when proposals were made to me involving a complete and entire surrender of all that a man of honor may be supposed to hold most dear. Do you wonder, sir, that I have thrown myself into the arms of a generous and high-minded enemy?” “Ha!” said he, relaxing the hold of the freezing stare for the first time in the interview. “They wished you to turn spy, did they? Mr. Page, I thoroughly applaud your courage and resolution, as well as your frankness in telling me this. Not many men in your situation would have dared to do it. But I have long suspected Mr. Washington and his advisers on this score. It is the least honorable part of their stubborn resistance to their king.” I should have laughed outright if I had had liberty. This from the man, mind you, who had corresponded secretly for months with Benedict Arnold, bribing, suborning and finally protecting the traitor; the man who had sent the brave Major André, his own adjutant-general, into our lines, if not as a spy, at least as a go-between to treat with our Judas of West Point! “As you say, Sir Henry, it is the least honorable part of warfare,” I agreed mildly, fearful now lest, my case being safely made, I should say too much. But Sir Henry would not let it rest at that. “It is greatly to your credit that you were courageous enough to refuse, Mr. Page,” he went on, taking, as I meant he should, my refusal for granted. And then, as if upon a premeditated thought: “Are you acquainted with Mr. Arnold?” I said I was not; that my arm of the service, the horse, had never chanced to be under his command. The commander-in-chief found a pen and quickly wrote me a note. “Take that to Mr. Arnold,” he said almost graciously. “He lodges next door, and his hour is nine o’clock.” And, as I was bowing myself out: “Stay, Mr. Page; shall I give you an introduction to the pay-master?--for present necessities?” I understood this to be an offer to pay, not for my allegiance, but for the information he had--or thought he had--of me, and I declined as delicately as I could, saying that a soldier’s wants were few, and that I had taken the precaution to provide for myself out of my private funds. This seemed to please him still more, and, on the whole, the Sir Henry Clinton who bade me an affable “Good morning” was greatly less alarming and formidable than had been the one who had gripped me so chillingly in his stony stare while Lieutenant Castner was presenting me.