I walked up and down the hall for a long time. The minutes merged into an hour and then two hours. I grew tired with nothing to occupy my mind but the continual mumble of low voices. I fell to wondering where Louis was and what he was up to. More than once I had suspected the patroon’s motive in garrisoning the fort with his own men. I was so sure that his action was a mere trick, though I was taken in by it at the time, that I intended to slip from my window that very night and go to the Earl with a warning. Then it flashed upon me that perhaps Louis had already done this. Could the horseman we had heard be a messenger to recall the troops that had been dispatched to Albany? The idea seemed possible. The more I thought of it the more certain I became. I can remember to this day the thrill of satisfaction that I felt when I understood that the patroon was within one of checkmating himself. My imagination ran riot there in the silence before the door I was guarding. I began to fancy that the patroon meant to get possession of the city. I had noticed that day that his seven ships were so drawn up in the harbor as to command the whole front of the city. But in spite of everything I was satisfied with the situation. If the Earl had received warning, the patroon, after all, might succeed only in trapping himself. Then I felt a pang at heart—he was Miriam’s father. I could no longer hide from myself the fact that I was in love with the patroon’s daughter. From the moment when I first felt the charm of her attractiveness, I had fought hard against it. She was a Catholic and, worse than that, she was his daughter. But she had been good to Ruth. I recalled how earnestly my sister had tried to break down my unreasoning hatred of the Catholics. I thought, too, of Miriam’s kindness to old Meg; and of her love and belief in her father; and of her simple purity of faith. These were qualities I had not looked for in the Roman church. Then came that sweet picture of her and Ruth kneeling side by side in the little oratory, each praying in her own faith. This very evening I had begged Miriam for a keepsake. She had been with us during a part of the time when her father was so upset by Louis’s absence. She had tried to coax him into a better humor, but he told her sharply to leave the room and go to bed. I followed her into the hall and when, a moment later, I picked up a handkerchief which she had dropped on the floor, I begged her to let me keep it. It was a mere bit of sentiment on my part, I confess, but it would have been a treasure to me and I wanted it with all my heart. But Miriam thought differently. She protested against the gift in such a vigorous manner that I could think nothing less than that she would not have me wear a favor of hers. This dashed my spirits and she saw accordingly how seriously I took the matter. “Pooh, you are foolish,” she cried, laughing. “This is why I won’t let you have it.”