That horrid treason which, through God's mercy, did not utterly confound us and deliver this fortress to our enemy, still seems to brood over this calm river and the frowning hills that buttress it, like a low, dark cloud. But I believe, under God, that our cause is now clean purged of all villainy, and all that is sordid, base, and contemptible. I believe, under God, that we shall accomplish our freedom and recover our ancient and English liberties in the end. That dull and German King, who sits yonder across the water, can never again stir in any American the faintest echo of that allegiance which once all offered simply and without question. Nor can his fat jester, my Lord North, contrive any new pleasantry to seduce us, or any new and bloody deviltry to make us fear the wrath of God's anointed or the monkey chatter of his clown. For us, the last king has sat upon a throne; the last privilege has been accorded to the last and noble drone; the last slave's tax has long been paid. Yet--and it sounds strange--_England_ still seems _home_ to us.... We think of it as home.... It is in our blood; and I am not ashamed to say it. And I think a hundred years may pass, and, in our hearts, shall still remain deep, deep, a tenderness for that far, ocean-severed home our grandsires knew as England. I say it spite o' the German King, spite of his mad ministers, spite o' British wrath and scorn and jibes and cruelty. For, by God! I believe that we ourselves who stand in battle here are the true mind and heart and loins of England, fighting to slay her baser self! Well, we are here in the Highlands, my sweetheart-wife and I.... I who now wear the regimentals of a Continental Colonel, and have a regiment as pretty as ever I see--though it be not over-strong in numbers. But, oh, the powder toughened line o' them in their patched blue-and-buff! And their bright bayonets! Sir, I would not boast; and ask I pardon if it seems so.... Below us His Excellency, calm, imperturbable, holds in his hand our destinies, juggling now with Sir Henry Clinton, now with my Lord Cornwallis, as suits his temper and his purpose. The traitor, Arnold, ravages where he may; the traitor, Lee, sulks in retreat; and Conway has confessed his shame; and the unhappy braggart, Gates, now mourns his laurels, wears his willows, and sits alone, a broken and preposterous man. I think no day passes but I thank God for my Lord Stirling, for our wise Generals Greene and Knox and Wayne, for the gallant young Marquis, so loved and trusted by His Excellency. But war is long--oh, long and wearying!--and a dismal and vexing business for the most. I, being in garrison at this fortress, which is the keystone of our very liberties, find that, in barracks as in the field, every hour brings its anxieties and its harassing duties.