I was convinced now that the man was trying to draw from me the facts about the battle, and I believed more than ever that he and his comrades were Tory spies. I regretted that Whitestone and I had not removed the dust of travel before we entered the tavern. I regretted also that so many of our countrymen should prove faithless to us. It would have been far easier for us had we only the British and the hired Hessians to fight. Whitestone was leaning against his horse, bridle in hand, looking at the solitary cloud that the sky contained. Apparently the sergeant was off in dreams, but I knew he was listening intently. He let his eyes fall, and when they met mine, he said, very simply and carelessly: “I think we’d better go.” As I said, the sergeant is a very handy man to have about in an emergency. His solution was the simplest in the world--merely to ride away from the men and leave them. We mounted our horses. “Good day, gentlemen,” we said. “Good day,” they replied. Then we left them, and when I looked back, at our first turning, they were still standing at the door of the tavern. But I gave them little further thought, for Clinton and his advancing fleet and army must now receive the whole attention of the sergeant and myself. It was obvious that we must leave Albany, go down the river, and get exact news about the British. It was easy enough for us to pass out of the town and continue our journey. We had been provided with the proper papers in case of trouble. We had given our horses rest and food in Albany, and rode at a good pace for an hour. Not far away we could see the Hudson, a great ribbon of silver or gray, as sunshine or cloud fell upon it. I was occupied with the beauty of the scene, when Whitestone called my attention and pointed ahead. Fifty yards away, and in the middle of the road, stood two horsemen motionless. They seemed to be planted there as guards, yet they wore no uniforms. I felt some anxiety, but reflected that the horsemen must be countrymen waiting, through curiosity or friendship, for approaching travelers in such troublous times. But as we rode nearer I saw that I was mistaken. “Our inquiring friends of the tavern,” said Whitestone. He spoke the truth. I recognized them readily. When we were within fifteen feet they drew their horses across the way, blocking it. “What does this mean, gentlemen? Why do you stop us?” I asked. “We are an American patrol,” replied the foremost of the two, the one who had questioned me at the tavern, “and we can not let anybody pass here. It is against our orders.” Both wore ragged Continental coats, which I suppose they had brought out of some recess before they started on the circuit ahead of us. I signed to Whitestone to keep silent, and rode up close to the leader. “We ought to understand each other,” I said, speaking in a confident and confidential tone. “What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.