The two Englishmen, after their hasty flight from Good Hope, had pressed on as fast as their feet would carry them toward Windsor. Boston’s knowledge of the proposed assault caused him many an inward chuckle. He gloried in the discomfiture of Van Zandt. “I heard a fall,” said Willie, “while they were pursuing us from the house. How was that, Bainbridge?” “That,” replied Bainbridge, with an indescribable twist of his features, “_was_ caused by the fall of—something.” “A wise observation. What was it?” “I would not be certain upon this point, worthy young man of war,” said Boston. “I can not fight with carnal weapons. I am a man of peace, and live by trade.” “Don’t keep up that farce here, I beg you. I have laughed in secret at the manner in which you have kept this character, until I am nearly past laughing again. But, what is the use of keeping it up here?” “It must be done, Willie. Until Good Hope is ours, and the Dutch driven out of the valley, I am nothing but Boston Bainbridge. Do you think any of them suspect, except Katrine?” “Yes. Once or twice you have given orders in your usual tone. Van Zandt heard you to-night, I am sure. Katrine and Theresa heard you. They are pretty sharp people, and hard to blind.” “Katrine is a darling,” said Bainbridge. “I hate to deceive her. But it must all come right sometime. When she is my wife we can laugh together over the life of a hawker.” “I wonder what old Paul Swedlepipe and Ten Eyck are doing about this time. Won’t the fellow tear when he sees that horse after the rain? Oh, I would give fifty pounds to see his face at the time. This rain will wash every grain of color off from his hide, and we should see a skeleton instead of the horse I sold him. Never mind; we have a right to spoil the Egyptians. Ha! The bush moves!”