We had halted behind some willows that overhung the brook beneath the Kissing Bridge. Over this bridge ran the road, which led north from the city through the length of the island to Harlem, passing on the way the manor-house and park of Patroon Van Volkenberg. We had scarcely concealed ourselves behind the bushes when the forward members of the cavalcade came in sight. Two horsemen led the way, wearing the red band upon their arms and carrying blue pennants upon staves that were thrust into their stirrups. Next came the patroon. At his side rode a slight, almost dwarflike man with pale features and snow white hair. “That is Louis Van Ramm,” whispered Pierre as the dwarf drew near the bridge. “It was he let loose the dogs on me.” The patroon himself, who sat his horse firm and erect, looked forty-five or fifty years of age. From time to time he would turn in the saddle and glance back with satisfaction upon his score of followers, who rode two and two behind him. He was their feudal chief. The clanking of their harness, the irregular clatter of the horses’ feet upon the hard road, the look of respect with which every eye met his—all this inspired the patroon with the feeling of satisfaction that showed so plainly in his finely modeled face. They rode by, over the hollow sounding bridge and up the long hill, till the last sharp sounds fainted in the distance. Only the rustling tree tops and the rippling brook remained to disturb the soft stillness of the autumn afternoon. Pierre rose and I followed him; first up a steep footpath and then along the highroad till we came within sight of the town. When we arrived at Lady Marmaduke’s, Pierre led the way to the back entrance, telling me to wait in the servant’s hall while he sought admittance to my lady’s presence. He soon returned to me with the command to follow him. “She will talk to you,” he said, as we threaded a long, dimly lighted corridor. “Do not fear. She is a good friend though a hard woman. I have let her know what I have already told you. She will tell you what else there is to be known.” In answer to Pierre’s knock a soft voice bade me enter. It was not such a voice as would suggest the “hard woman” of Pierre’s description. It was the tender, feeling voice I had heard when Lady Marmaduke spoke to the people about her husband—when she spoke to them tremblingly, straight from the bottom of her heart. Pierre thrust aside the drapery of the door and I stepped into the room alone.