Several days later a courier rode up to the door and summoned General Arnold before him, into whose care he delivered a letter from the Headquarters of the Commander-in-chief. Strangely excited, the General failed to perceive the identity of the messenger as he saluted and made the usual brief inquiries. Only after the courier was well down the road did the memory of his strangely familiar face recur to him. But he was too preoccupied with the document to give him any more attention. Breaking the seal he scanned the introductory addresses and read his reprimand from his Commander-in-chief, a reprimand couched in the tenderest language, a duty performed with the rarest delicacy and tact. "Our profession is the chastest of all," it read. "Even the shadow of a fault tarnishes the luster of our finest achievements. The least inadvertence may rob us of the public favor so hard to be acquired. I reprimand you for having forgotten that, in proportion as you have rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you should have been guarded and temperate in your deportment towards your fellow citizens. Exhibit anew those noble qualities which have placed you on the list of our most valued commanders. I myself will furnish you, as far as it may be in my power, with opportunities of regaining the esteem of your country." Slipping it again into its envelope, he slammed the door. PART THREE CHAPTER I I In one of those wide indentations along the eastern shore of the Schuylkill River, there opens out in tranquil seclusion a spacious cove. The waters wander here to rest, it seems, before resuming their voluminous descent to the Delaware and the sea. Trees and saplings wrapped about with close-clinging vines hang far over the water's edge like so many silent sentinels on guard before the spot, their luxuriant foliage weighing their bending twigs almost to the surface. Green lily-pads and long ribboned water grass border the water's curve, and toss gently in the wind ripples as they glide inwards with just murmur enough to lull one to quiet and repose. Into this scene, placid, clear, though of a deep and dark green under the overhanging leaves, stole a small canoe with motion enough scarcely to ruffle the top of the water. A paddle noiselessly dipped into the undisturbed surface and as noiselessly emerged again, leaving behind only a series of miniature eddies where the waters had closed after their penetration. A small white hand, hanging lazily over the forward side of the tiny craft, played in the soft, limpid water, and made a furrow along the side of the boat that glistened like so many strings of sparkling jewels. "So you are going away again tomorrow?" Marjorie was saying as she continued to dabble in the water.