We were walking the horses, neck and neck, up the low hill leading to the legion cantonments when I asked Jack what I had said and done in Van Ditteraick’s, and if it were past peaceful, or at least postponing, remedy. “Never tell me you don’t know what you said and did, Dick,” he laughed. “But I don’t,” I asserted, telling him the simple truth. “I saw things vaguely, as if the place were filled with a red mist, and there was a Babel of voices out of which came a great silence. Then I saw Seytoun with his handkerchief to his face.” “You saw and heard and did quite enough,” he replied, and his smile was grim. “And there is no remedy, save that which the doctors--and sundry hot-blooded gentlemen of our own ilk--are fond of; namely, a bit of blood-letting.” “Yet, Jack,” I stammered, “if I say that some remedy must be found; that it is worse than folly for me to fight this man at this time?” He stopped his horse short in mid-road and swore at me like the good friend he was. “If you could turn your back on this now, Dick Page,” he raged, when the cursing ammunition was all spent, “I could believe at least one thing the captain says of you. He called you a coward,--as I remember,--and put a scurrilous lie on all the Pages since the first Richard to account for it. Great heavens, Dick! can’t you see that this lie must not go uncontradicted?” “You are altogether right, Jack,” I acquiesced; and then, telling the simple truth again: “This day I seem to have lost what little wit I ever had. As you say, there is no remedy, now; so we fight at daybreak.” “Of course you do,” said Pettus; and so we rode on to the horse-rope where the legion mounts were tethered. It was at the door of Pettus’s quarters, one of the rude log cabins chinked with clay that the army had been throwing up for winter shelters, that a surprise was awaiting me in the greeting of Melton, a young Pennsylvanian who was acting-orderly for General Washington. “Good evening, Captain Page,” he said pleasantly. “You have despatches from Colonel Baylor for the general?” “No, Mr. Melton,” I replied, wondering a little. “I am on leave until to-morrow. This is my birthday.” “Ah,” said he, taking my hand most cordially, “allow me to wish you many happy returns.” Then he went back to the matter of the despatches I was supposed to be carrying. “It is very singular; Mr. Hamilton seemed quite sure, and he was certainly advised of your coming to Tappan headquarters. Perhaps you will be good enough to report to him--after supper?” I said I should be honored, and he went his way and left us to our frugal evening-bread--how the Dutch speech clings when once you have washed your mouth with their country wine!--prepared for Pettus by his scout and horse-holder.