g the ladies
who had not yet appeared. First I greeted Sir Henry Clinton, who had at
that moment entered, followed by his staff and by two glittering
officers of his Seventh Light Dragoons. He appeared pale and worn, his
eyes somewhat inflamed from overstudy by candle-light, but he spoke to
me pleasantly, as did Oliver De Lancey, the Adjutant-General, who had
succeeded poor young Andre--an agreeable and accomplished gentleman,
and very smart in his brilliant uniform of scarlet loaded with stiff
gold.

O'Neil, in his gay dress of the Seventeenth Dragoons, and Harkness,
wearing similar regimentals, were overflushed and frolicksome, no doubt
having already begun their celebration for the victory of the Flatbush
birds, which they had backed so fortunately at the Coq d'Or. Sir Peter,
too, was in mischievous good spirits, examining my very splendid
costume as though he had not chosen it for me at his own tailor's.

"Gad, Carus!" he exclaimed, "has his Majesty appointed a viceroy in
North America--or is it the return of that Solomon whose subjects rule
the Dock Ward still?"

O'Neil and Harkness, too, were merry, making pretense that my glitter
set them blinking; but the grave, gray visage of Sir Henry, and his
restless pacing of the polished floor, gave us all pause; and
presently, as by common accord, voices around him dropped to lower
tones, and we spoke together under breath, watching askance the
commander-in-chief, who now stood, head on his jeweled breast, hands
clasped loosely behind his back.

"Sir Peter," he said, looking up with a forced laugh, "I have
irritating news. The rebel dragoons are foraging within six miles of
our lines at Kingsbridge."

For a month we here in New York had become habituated to alarms. We had
been warned to expect the French fleet; we had known that his
Excellency was at Dobbs Ferry, with quarters at Valentine's; we had
seen, day by day, the northern lines strengthened, new guns mounted on
the forts and batteries, new regiments arrive, constant alarms for the
militia, and the city companies under arms, marching up Murray Hill,
only, like that celebrated army of a certain King of France, to march
down again with great racket of drums and overfierce officers noisily
shouting commands. But even I had not understood how near to us the
siege had drawn, closing in steadily, inch by inch, from the green
Westchester hills.

A little thrill shot through me as I noted the newer, deeper lines
e