“He had Richard Montgomery with him,” said Danvers, coldly, “and Montgomery got what little training he had as an officer in the British army. The best that one can say of him is that he was brave.” At the name of the intrepid and lamented Montgomery, the fierce looking man with the scar upon his face had bent forward interestedly; but at the words of Danvers he stepped forward, his strong fingers twisting nervously. “I knew General Montgomery,” said he to Danvers; “he was the cleverest officer I ever saw.” Danvers turned and swept him with an insolent look. “And, pray, sir, who are you?” he asked. “Shamus O’Moore, once of the Inniskillens,” answered the newcomer, standing very erect and speaking in a harsh, high voice. “Ah,” sneered Danvers, “an English dragoon.” “No,” said the other with great promptness, “an Irish dragoon.” “It is all the same,” spoke Danvers. “Pardon me,” protested the other, still in the same tone, and never budging an inch in his ramrod like attitude. “There is no sameness about it at all. Faith, ye could never make an Englishman out of an Irishman in the world. They are like oil and water, and they won’t mix.” “It’s the man they call Longsword,” whispered Walter Stanton to his chum, Philip Morgan. “I know,” answered the latter. “I’ve seen him at Ethan Carlyle’s several times.” “General Montgomery,” said the soldier-like O’Moore, “were an Irishman like meself and proud he were of it. He gave up his life for this struggling nation, sir, in the storming of Quebec; and it was no common life, I’ll have ye know. There was in him the makings of a general officer that would have astonished the world.” “Oh, you fancy yourself a judge, I see,” said Danvers, icily. “Man and boy, I’ve soldiered for thirty years,” said the other, “and I’ve had lots of time to pick up stray bits of knowledge by the wayside.” As Danvers turned away to give his attention to young Wheelock, who was again plucking warningly at his sleeve, O’Moore noticed Walter Stanton and favored him instantly with a stiff, formal salute. “Hello, O’Moore,” said Walter. “Where is Ethan?” “Master Ethan will be here in a few moments,” returned O’Moore. “There he is beyant, speaking with Mr. Jefferson.” The lads turned their eyes in the direction indicated, and saw a gentleman garbed in sober black standing in the footway some little distance off conversing excitedly with a clean built, handsome boy of seventeen, who was seated astride a powerful bay horse. “Did you know that Ethan was secretary to Mr. Jefferson, now?” asked Walter, as they watched the two with interest. “Yes,” answered Philip. “His father and Mr. Jefferson were great friends, O’Moore, were they not?” “Indeed, yes, sir,” said the ex-dragoon. “And Mr. Jefferson visited him at New Orleans before the war came on.”