"Stop that nonsense!" burst out Sir Lupus. "Take 'em away, Cecile! Take 'em out o' my sight!" The children, only too delighted to escape, rushed forth with whoops and hoots, demanding to be shown their hero, General Gates. Sir Lupus looked after them sardonically. "We're a race o' glory--mongers these days," he said. "Gad, I never thought to see offspring o' mine chasing the drums! Look at 'em now! Ruyven hunting about Tryon County for a Hessian to knock him in the head; Cecile sitting in rapture with every cornet or ensign who'll notice her; the children yelling for Lafayette and Washington; Dorothy, here, playing at Donna Quixota, and you starting for Stillwater to teach that fool, Gates, how to catch Burgoyne. Set an ass to catch an ass--eh, George?--" He stopped, his small eyes twinkling with a softer light. "I suppose you want me to go," he said. We did not reply. "Oh, I'm going," he added, fretfully; "I'm no company for a pair o' heroes, a colonel, and--" "Touching the colonelcy," I said, "I want to make it plain that I shall refuse the promotion. I did nothing; the confederacy was split by Magdalen Brant, not by me; I did nothing at Oriskany; I cannot understand how General Schuyler should think me deserving of such promotion. And I am ashamed to take it when such men as Arnold are passed over, and such men as Schuyler are slighted--" "Folderol! What the devil's this?" bawled Sir Lupus. "Do you think you know more than your superior officers--hey? You're a colonel, George. Let well enough alone, for if you make a donkey of yourself, they'll make you a major-general!" With a spasmodic effort he got on his feet, seized glass and pipe, and waddled out of the room, slamming the door behind him. In the ringing silence a charred log broke and fell in a shower of sparks, tincturing the air with the perfume of sweet birch smoke. [Illustration: "A STRANGE SHYNESS SEEMED TO HOLD US APART".] I rose from my chair. Dorothy rose, too, trembling. A strange shyness seemed to hold us apart. She stood there, the forced smile stamped on her lips, watching me with the fascination of fear; and I steadied myself on the arm of my chair, looking deep into her eyes, seeking to recognize in her the child I had known. The child had gone, and in her place stood this lovely, silent stranger, with all the mystery of woman-hood in her eyes--that sweet light, exquisitely prophetic, divinely sad. "Dorothy," I said, under my breath. "All that is brave and adorable in you, I love and worship. You have risen so far above me--and I am so weak and--and broken, and unworthy--" "I love you," she faltered, her lips scarcely moving. Then the color surged over brow and throat; she laid her hands on her hot cheeks; I took her in my arms, holding her imprisoned. At my touch the color faded from her face, leaving it white as a flower. "I fear you--maid spiritual, maid militant--Maid-at-Arms!" I stammered.