"Now," I continued, "that bell calls me to duty as surely as drum or trumpet ever summoned soldier since there were wars on earth. I must go to Stoner's; I can not guide you to Caughnawaga through the woods or take you thither by road or trail. And yet, if I do not, you mean to take my horse." "I must." "And risk a Mohawk war party on the way?" "I--must." "That is very brave," said I, curbing my impatience, "but not wise. There are others of his kin to care for old Douw Fonda if war has truly come upon us here in Tryon County." "Soldier," said she in her still voice, which I once thought had been made strange by fear, but now knew otherwise--"my honour, too, is engaged. Mr. Fonda, whom I serve, has made of me more than a servant. He uses me as a daughter; offers to adopt me; trusts his age and feebleness to me; looks to me for every need, every ministration.... "Soldier, I came to Dries Bowman's last night with his consent, and gave him my word to return within a week. I came to Fonda's Bush because Mr. Fonda desired me to visit the only family in America with whom I have the slightest tie of kinship--the Bowmans. "But if war has come to us here in County Tryon, then instantly my duty is to this brave old gentleman who lives all alone in his house at Caughnawaga, and nobody except servants and black slaves to protect him if danger comes to the door." What the girl said touched me; nor could I discern in her anything of the coquetry which Nick Stoner's story of her knitting and her ring of gallants had pictured for me. Surely here was no rustic coquette to be flattered and courted and bedeviled by her betters--no country suck-thumb to sit a-giggling at her knitting, surfeited with honeyed words that meant destruction;--no wench to hang her head and twiddle apron while some pup of quality whispered in her ear temptations. I said: "This is the better way. Listen. Ride my mare to Mayfield by the highway. If you learn there that the Lower Castle Indians have painted for war, there is no hope of winning through to Cayadutta Lodge. And of what use to Mr. Fonda would be a dead girl?" "That is true," she whispered. "Very well. And if the Mohawks are loose along the river, then you shall remain at the Block House until it becomes possible to go on. There is no other way. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir." "Do you engage to do this thing? And to place my horse in safety at the Mayfield fort?" "Yes, sir." "Then," said I, "in my turn I promise to send aid to you at Mayfield, or come myself and take you to Cayadutta Lodge as soon as that proves possible. And I promise more; I shall endeavour to get word through to Mr. Fonda concerning your situation." She thanked me in that odd, still voice of hers. Her eyes had the starry look of a child's--or of unshed tears. "My mare will carry two," said I cheerfully. "Let me mount behind you and set you on the Mayfield road."