Two great tears forced themselves from Peggy’s eyes, and coursed down her cheeks. “Thee has borne so much,” she uttered chokingly. “So much, Friend John, that I wonder thee has lived to tell it. And having borne so much ’tis dreadful to ask more of thee, and yet to have thee fail—fail just at the very last! To dim such an honorable record! To blot out all that thou hast endured by desertion! Oh, how could thee? How could thee? Could thee not endure a little more?” Drayton stirred restlessly. “They haven’t treated me well,” he blurted out. “I wanted to be in the Select Corps, and they wouldn’t put me there. And I merited it, Mistress Peggy. I tell you I merited it.” “What is the Select Corps, John?” asked the girl curiously. “’Tis a body of soldiers made up of picked men from the whole army,” he returned. “They are always in advance, and lead every charge in an active campaign. I wanted to be there, and they wouldn’t put me in.” “But,” persisted Peggy speaking in a low tone, “does thee think that thy general would desert as thee has done just because he was not treated well? Thee knows that ’tis only of late that Congress would give him his proper rank.” “He desert!” The boy’s sullen eyes lighted up again at the mere mention of his hero, and he laughed. “Why, I verily believe that General Arnold would fight if everybody else in America stopped fighting. Why, at Saratoga when General Gates deprived him of his command, and ordered him to stay in his tent, he would not. When we boys heard what had been done, we were afraid he would leave us, and so we got up a petition asking him to wait until after the battle. And, though he was smarting from humiliation, he promised that he’d stay with us. But Gates told him not to leave the tent, and ordered us forward. We went, but our hearts were heavy to be without him. “At the first sound of battle, however, he rushed from the tent, threw himself on his horse, and dashed to where we were, crying, ‘No man shall keep me in my tent this day. If I am without command, I will fight in the ranks; but the soldiers, God bless them, will follow my lead.’ “How we cheered when we saw him coming! Brandishing his broad-sword above his head, he dashed into the thickest of the fight, calling the old, ‘Come on, boys! Victory or death!’ and the regiments followed him like a whirlwind. The conflict was terrible, but in the midst of flame and smoke, and metal hail, he was everywhere. His voice rang out like a trumpet, animating and inspiring us to valor. He led us to victory, but just as the Hessians, terrified by his approach, turned to flee, they delivered a volley in their retreat that shot his horse from under him. At the same instant a wounded German private fired a shot which struck him in that same leg that had been so badly lacerated at Quebec, two years before.