“Then, sir, I take it,” said Drayton clasping it with a reverent gesture. “And may God requite me with my just deserts if ever I bring disgrace upon it. Sir, I swear to you that never shall it be used, save as you have used it, in the defense of my country. Should ever I grow faint hearted again, I will have but to look at this sword, and think of the courage and patriotism of him who gave it to renew my courage. Pray heaven that I may ever prove as loyal to my country as Benedict Arnold hath shown himself.” “You, you overwhelm me, boy,” gasped Arnold who had grown strangely pale as the lad was speaking. “I make no doubt but that you will grace the weapon as well as the original owner. Ah!” with evident relief, “here are Mrs. Owen and the fair Peggy. Doth not our soldier lad make a brave showing, Miss Peggy?” “He doth indeed,” cried Peggy in delight. “And thee has given him thy sword, Friend Arnold! How monstrously good of thee!” “Is it not?” asked Drayton in an awed tone. “And I am only a subaltern. Oh, Mistress Peggy, you will never have the opportunity to call me a summer soldier again. I have that which will keep me from ever being faint hearted again.” He touched the weapon proudly as he ended. “This will inspire me with courage.” “Of course it will,” cried Peggy with answering enthusiasm. “Mother said all along that naught ailed thee but an empty stomach.” “’Tis what ails the most of our soldiers,” said the boy as the laugh died away which this speech provoked. “’Tis marvelous how a little food doth raise the patriotism.” “And thee will be sure to write?” questioned Peggy when they descended to the lower floor. “I shall be anxious to hear of thy well-being, and thee must remember, John, that ’tis my intention to keep thee in socks, and mittens, and to renew that uniform when ’tis needed. Thee shall be cold no more if I can help it. And how shall it be done unless thee will let me know thy whereabouts?” “Have no fear. I shall be glad to write,” answered Drayton who, now that the time had come for departure, seemed loath to leave them. “Madam Owen, and Miss Peggy, you have made a new man of me. How shall I ever thank you for your care?” “Speak not of it, dear lad,” said the lady gently. “If we have done thee good it hath not been without benefit to us also. And if thou dost need anything fail not to let us know. ’Tis sweet to minister to those who take the field in our defense. It makes thee very near and dear to us to know personally all that thee and thy fellows are undergoing for our sakes.” “Dear lady, the man who will not fight for such as you deserves the fate of a deserter indeed,” exclaimed the youth, much moved. “I thank you again. You shall hear from me, but not as a summer soldier.” He bent in a deep obeisance before both mother and daughter, and then with one last long look about him John Drayton followed General Arnold to the coach. CHAPTER XIII—GOOD NEWS