After a few moments' silence we moved forward towards the
pleasure-house, and we had scarcely started when down the road, from the
north, came the patroon riding a powerful black horse, attended by old
Cato mounted on a raw-boned hunter, and by one Peter Van Horn, the
district Brandt-Meester, or fire-warden. As they halted at Sir George
Covert's door, we rode up to join them at a gallop, and the patroon,
seeing us far off, waved his hat at us in evident good humor.
"Not a landmark missing!" he shouted, "and my signs all witnessed for
record by Peter and Cato! How do the southwest landmarks stand?"
"The tenth pine is blasted by lightning," said Dorothy, walking her
beautiful gray to Sir Lupus's side.
"Pooh! We've a dozen years to change trees," said Sir Lupus, in great
content. "All's well everywhere, save at the Fish-House near the
Sacandaga ford, where some impudent rascal says he saw smoke on the
hills. He's doubtless a liar. Where's Sir George?"
Sir George sauntered forth from the doorway where he had been standing,
and begged us to dismount, but the patroon declined, saying that we had
far to ride ere sundown, and that one of us should go around by
Broadalbin. However, Dorothy and I slipped from our saddles to stretch
our legs while a servant brought stirrup-cups and Sir George gathered a
spray of late lilac which my cousin fastened to her leather belt.
"Tory lilacs," said Sir George, slyly; "these bushes came from cuttings
of those Sir William planted at Johnson Hall."
"If Sir William planted them, a rebel may wear them," replied Dorothy,
gayly.
"Ay, it's that whelp, Sir John, who has marred what the great baronet
left as his monument," growled old Peter Van Horn.
"That's treason!" snapped the patroon. "Stop it. I won't have politics
talked in my presence, no! Dammy, Peter, hold your tongue, sir!"
Dorothy, wearing the lilac spray, vaulted lightly into her saddle, and I
mounted my mare. Stirrup-cups were filled and passed up to us, and we
drained a cooled measure of spiced claret to the master of the
pleasure-house, who pledged us gracefully in return, and then stood by
Dorothy's horse, chatting and laughing until, at a sign from Sir Lupus,
Cato sounded "Afoot!" on his curly hunting-horn, and the patroon wheeled
his big horse out into the road, with a whip-salute to our host.
"Dine with us to-night!" he bawled, without turning his fat head or
waiting for a reply, and hammered away in a torrent of dust. Sir George
glanced wistfully at Dorothy.
"There's a district officer-call gone out," he said. "Some of the
Palatine officers desire my presence. I cannot refuse. So ... it is
good-bye for a week."
"Are you a militia officer?" I asked, curiously.
"Yes," he said, with a humorous grimace. "May I say that you also are a
candidate?"
Dorothy turned squarely in her saddle and looked me in the eyes.
"At the district's service, Sir George," I said, lightly.
"Ha! That is well done, Ormond!" he exclaimed. "Nothing yet to
inconvenience you, but our Governor Clinton may send you a billet doux
from Albany before May ends and June begins--if this periwigged beau,
St. Leger, strolls out to ogle Stanwix--"
Dorothy turned her horse sharply, saluted Sir George, and galloped away
towards her father, who had halted at the cross-roads to wait for us.
"Good-bye, Sir George," I said, offering my hand. He took it in a firm,
steady clasp.
"A safe journey, Ormond. I trust fortune may see fit to throw us
together in this coming campaign."
I bowed, turned bridle, and cantered off, leaving him standing in the
road before his gayly painted pleasure-house, an empty wine-cup in
his hand.
"Damnation, George!" bawled Sir Lupus, as I rode up, "have we all day to
stand nosing one another and trading gossip! Some of us must ride by
Fonda's Bush, or Broadalbin, whatever the Scotch loons call it; and I'll
say plainly that I have no stomach for it; I want my dinner!"
"It will give me pleasure to go," said I, "but I require a guide."
"Peter shall ride with you," began Sir Lupus; but Dorothy broke in,
impatiently:
"He need not. I shall guide Mr. Ormond to Broadalbin."
"Oh no, you won't!" snapped the patroon; "you've done enough of
forest-running for one day. Peter, pilot Mr. Ormond to the Bush."
And he galloped on ahead, followed by Cato and Peter; so that, by reason
of their dust, which we did not choose to choke in, Dorothy and I
slackened our pace and fell behind.
"Do you know why you are to pass by Broadalbin?" she asked, presently.