“Ah,” he said, smiling again; “a drinking bout at Van Ditteraick’s in honor of your birthday, I take it. You are sad roisterers--you Virginia gentlemen”--a thing he could say and carry off, since he was himself West-Indian born. “It was but a single bottle, I do assure you, Mr. Hamilton,” I protested; “and such wine as would make one vow never to be caught under the shadow of a grape-vine again.” “Still, you are sad roisterers,” he persisted quietly. “And it was precisely because you are the saddest of them all, and, besides, the greatest daredevil in your own or any other troop, that you were sent for at this particular time, Captain Page.” I hope I was not past blushing at the left-handed compliment, well-meant as it seemed to be. Some few passages there had been in my captaincy where foolhardy daring had taken the reins after wise caution had dropped them hopelessly upon the horse’s neck, and the event on each occasion had had the good luck to prove the wisdom of the foolishness. But as for being a daredevil--why, well, that is as it may be, too. The veriest sheep of a man will often fight like the devil if you can corner him and get him well past caring too much for the precious bauble called life. But I was killing time, and Mr. Hamilton was waiting. “Don’t count too greatly upon a roisterer’s courage,” I laughed. “But what desperate venture does his excellency wish to send me on, Mr. Hamilton?” He held up a slim hand warningly. “Softly, Captain Page, softly: the commander-in-chief is not to be at all named in this. You will take your orders from me--if you take them from any one; though as to that, there will be no orders. And you have hit on the proper word when you call the venture ‘desperate.’” “You are whetting my curiosity to a razor-edge,” I averred, laughing again. “By the time you reach the details I shall be ripe for anything.” He sat staring at the blazing logs for a long minute before he began again; not hesitating, as I made sure, but merely arranging the matter in orderly sequence in his mind. “First, let me ask you this, Captain Page,” he began at the end of the forecasting minute. “You come of a long line of gentlemen, and no one knows better what is due to a keen sense of honor. How far would that sense of honor let you go on a road which would lead to Sir Henry Clinton’s discomfiture and possible overthrow?” “There need be little question of honor involved in dealing with Sir Henry Clinton,” I replied promptly. “When he bought Benedict Arnold for a price, and sent his own adjutant-general into our lines as a spy, he set the pace for us. I’d keep faith with any honest enemy, to the last ditch, Colonel Hamilton; but on the other hand, I’d fight the devil with fire, most heartily, if need were, and take no hurt to my conscience.”