It is none so easy to come out of a sound sleep in full possession of all the faculties. My first half-waking impression was that something, a word muttered in my sleep, perhaps, had betrayed me, and the impulse that went with it prompted me to spring up and throttle the traitor before he could give the alarm. In good fact, I was starting from my chair with this same insane purpose tugging at me, when his word reassured me. “You sleep soundly, Captain Page, and I am old enough and burdened enough to envy you the gift of it,” he said moodily. And then, with a touch of sympathy that made me wish he would always show me only the hateful side of him: “I was about to command your attendance for the evening, but you will be needing rest to fit you for to-morrow’s duties, which will be arduous enough.” Having a good grip upon my senses by this time, I protested at once that I was fit and much refreshed by my sleep, which I found, to my astonishment, had stretched above an hour. Also, I expressed a willingness, which was entirely unfeigned, to accompany him wherever he was going, and I thought his somber eyes lighted a little at that. “Have you ever heard me spoken of as a timid man, Captain Page?” he asked, with a lifting of the brow that was meant for a smile. I had not, and I said so. His worst enemy never denied him courage and intrepidity, I think; and when I remembered the stories they told of the rash boy who had fired a pistol at his sister’s French admirer, and had once stripped his coat and offered to fight a stout constable who was interfering with some of his lawless pranks, I could well believe that the daredevil boy of a dozen years was the legitimate father of the man of forty. “A timid man would scarcely have led the winter march to Quebec,” I said in confirmation of the tribute to his courage. At this the brow-wrinkling grew into a wintry laugh. “That was five long years ago, and the times and manners have changed much since then. In Mr. Washington’s camp, now, they would be quoting Shakespeare at me, saying that ‘Conscience doth make cowards of us all.’ Do you read Shakespeare, Captain Page?” “Not that part of him,” I laughed; adding: “Nor do you, General Arnold.” “Perhaps not. Yet I find myself growing thoughtful now, where I once took no thought,” he said reflectively; “as in the present instance. You are fresh from Washington’s camp, Captain. Have you ever heard it said that he would give the half of his Virginia estates to lay his hands upon me?” I could truthfully say “No,” to this.