"They beat all," said Sir Lupus, at length; "don't they, George?" "Do you mean our troops, sir?" I asked. "No, sir, I don't. I mean our women." He struck his fat leg with his palm, drew a long breath, and regarded me, arms akimbo. "Mad, sir; all stark, raving mad! Look at those two chits of girls! The Legion had gone tearing off after you to Schell's with an Oneida scout; Sir George pops in with his tale of your horrid plight, then pelts off to find his troopers and do what he could to save you. Gad, George! it looked bad for you. I--I was half out o' my senses, thinking of you; and what with the children a-squalling and the household rushing up stairs and down, and the militia marching to the grist-mill bridge, I did nothing. What the devil was I to do? Eh?" "You did quite right, sir," I said, gravely. He lay back, staring at me, shoving his fat hands into his breeches pockets. "If I'd known what that baggage o' mine was bent on, I'd ha' locked her in the cellar!... George, you won't hold that against me, will you? She's my own daughter. But the hussy was gone with Magdalen Brant before I dreamed of it--gone on the maddest moonlight quest that mortal ever dared conceive!--one in rags cut from a red blanket, t'other in that rotten old armor that your aunt thought fit to ship from England when her father stripped the house to cross an ocean and build in the forests of a new world. George, she's all Ormond, that girl o' mine. A Varick would never have thought to cut such a caper, I tell you. It isn't in our line; it isn't in Dutch blood to imagine such things, or do 'em either!" He seized pipe and mug, swearing under his breath. "It was the bravest thing I ever knew," I said, huskily. He dipped his nose into his mug, pulled at his long pipe, and eyed me askance. "What the devil's this between you and Dorothy?" he growled. "Nothing, I trust now, sir," I answered, in a low voice. "Oh! 'nothing, you trust now, sir!'" he mimicked, striving to turn a sour face. "Dammy, d' ye know that I meant her for Sir George Covert?" His broad face softened; he attempted to scowl, and failed utterly. "Thank God, the land's clear of these bandits of St. Leger, anyhow!" he snorted. "I'll work my mills and I'll scrape enough to pay my debts. I suppose I'll have you on my hands when you've finished with Burgoyne." "No," I said, smiling, "the blow that Arnold struck at Stanwix will be felt from Maine to the Florida Keys. The blow to be delivered twenty miles north of us will settle any questions of land confiscation. No, Sir Lupus, I shall not be on your hands, but ... you may be on mine if you turn Tory!" "You impudent rogue!" he cried, struggling to his feet; then, still clutching pipe and pewter, he embraced me, and choked and chuckled, laying his fat head on my shoulder. "Be a son to me, George," he whimpered, sentimentally; "if you won't, you're a damned ungrateful pup!"