He was very civil,--a tall, haggard, careworn man, whose wife and children lived at Torloch, and their undefended situation caused him deep anxiety. So I walked to the Fort, Nick and my Indian following; and presently saw Penelope on the rifle-platform of the stockade, among the soldiers. She was gazing at the fiery sky in the north when I caught sight of her and called her name. For a moment she bent swiftly down over the pickets as though to pierce the dark where my voice came from; then she turned, and was descending the ladder when I entered by the postern. As I came up she took my shoulders between both hands, but said nothing, and I saw she had trouble to speak. "Yes," said I, "there is bad news for you. Your pretty Summer House is no more, Penelope." "Oh," she stammered, "did you--did you suppose it was the loss of a house that has driven me out o' my five senses?" "Are your sheep and cattle safe?" I asked in sudden alarm. "My God," she breathed, and stood with her face in both hands, there at the foot of the ladder under the April stars. "What is it frightens you?" I asked. Her hands fell to her side and she looked at me: "Nothing, sir.... Unless it be myself," she said calmly. "Your clothing is wet and you are shivering. Will you come into the fort?" We went in. I remembered how I had seen her there that night, nearly a year ago, and all the soldiers gathered around to entertain her, whilst she supped on porridge and smiled upon them over her yellow bowl's edge, like a very child. The few soldiers inside rose respectfully. A sergeant drew a settle to the blazing fire; a soldier brought us soupaan and a gill of rum. Nick came in with the Saguenay, and they both squatted down in their blankets before the fire, grave as a pair o' cats; and there they ate their fill of porridge at our feet, and blinked at the blaze and smoked their clays in silence. I told Penelope that we must travel this night to Johnstown, it being my duty to give an account of what had happened, without delay. "There can be no danger to us on the road," said I, "but the thought of leaving you here in this fort disturbs me." "What would I do here alone?" she asked. "What will you do alone in Johnstown?" I inquired in turn. At the same time I realized that we both were utterly homeless; and that in Johnstown our shelter must be a tavern, or, if danger threatened, the fortified jail called Johnstown Fort. "You will not abandon me, will you, sir?" she asked, touching my sleeve with the pretty confidence of a child. "Why, no," said I. "We can lodge at Jimmy Burke's Tavern. And there is Nick to give us countenance--and a most respectable Indian." "Is it scandalous for me to go thither in your company?" "What else is there for us to do?" "I should go to Albany," said she, "as soon as may be. And I am resolved to do so and to seek out Mr. Fonda and disembarrass you of any further care for me."