He led the way to a room, part parlour and part study, and, as it seemed, part armoury and harness-room, from the number of saddles and bridles, guns, hunting-knives, and such like matters which covered the walls and floor. Two or three dogs lay before the small wood-fire which burned on the hearth, and a big cat was nursing her brood of kittens in the great leather-covered arm-chair. Colonel von Falkenstein cleared a chair fur Philip and took another for himself—not the arm-chair, however. Philip took the seat offered him, and waited to be spoken to. "And so you are Reinhart's son?" said the colonel, after he had read over Count Maurice's note more than once. "On my word, you are a fine young fellow, and I wish I had better news for you of your father. He was a good, faithful, honest man, and the best smith I ever saw." Philip saw that the old gentleman was anxious to soften bad news; and though he would rather have heard it in the shortest, bluntest words in which it could be put, he felt the kindness intended. "My poor father is dead, then?" said he. "I cannot but fear so, my lad. He was sent on secret service—as a spy, in short—into the country down the bay—West Jersey, they call it. It was through no good-will of mine, I assure you. But they sent him. He put off in a boat from the fort down the river, and that was the last seen of him, but there was a terrible thunder-storm the next night, and two or three days after, the boat, leaky and broken, was found floating upside down in the bay. Your father's watch-coat was found entangled in the thwarts; and though, of course, there is not absolute certainty, I fear there is little doubt that he perished in the storm. He was a good, brave Christian man, and died in the discharge of his duty, if that is any comfort to you.—There! be a man, my poor boy." "It is a comfort, Your Excellency," said Philip as soon as he could speak. "Captain Burger told my mother that my father had deserted to avoid punishment." "Burger is a hound!" said Von Falkenstein, so angrily that the cat looked up and uttered a startled remonstrance. "He has not so much manhood about him as this dog. No, Philip Reinhart, your father died as he had lived—like a soldier and a Christian; and it is not always easy to be both, I can tell you. Many a time I have seen him sitting on the ground or a stone reading his Bible when the other men would be drinking or at dice. It was a shame to send him on such an errand, and never would have happened but for his folly in spending so much time learning English. But we all have our follies." Philip rose to go. "Oh, you must not leave me so soon," said the old gentleman. "You are not fit to travel, and it grows late. How did you come hither?" "On horseback, Your Excellency, as far as the village." "And you left your horse at the inn, eh?" Philip assented.