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.

I said I did not.

"Folk at the Fish-House saw smoke on the Mayfield hills an hour since.
That is twice in three days!"

"Well," said I, "what of that?"

"It is best that the Broadalbin settlement should hear of it."

"Do you mean that it may have been an Indian signal?"

"It may have been. I did not see it--the forest cut our view."

The westering sun, shining over the Mayfield hills, turned the dust to
golden fog. Through it Cato's red coat glimmered, and the hunting-horn,
curving up over his bent back, struck out streams of blinding sparks.
Brass buttons on the patroon's broad coat-skirts twinkled like yellow
stars, and the spurs flashed on his quarter-gaiters as he pounded along
at a solid hand-gallop, hat crammed over his fat ears, pig-tail
a-bristle, and the blue coat on his enormous body white with dust.

In the renewed melody of the song-birds there was a hint of approaching
evening; shadows