The Maid-At-Arms

The patroon was waiting for us when we came to the weather-beaten finger-post:

"FONDA'S BUSH

4 MILES."

And Peter Van Horn had already ridden into the broad, soft wood-road, when Dorothy, swinging her horse past him at a gallop, cried out, "I want to go with them! Please let me!" And was gone like a deer, tearing away down the leafy trail.

"Come back!" roared Sir Lupus, standing straight up in his ponderous stirrups. "Come back, you little vixen! Am I to be obeyed, or am I not? Baggage! Undutiful tree-cat! Dammy, she's off!"

He looked at me and smote his fat thigh with open hand.

"Did you ever see the like of her!" he chuckled, in his pride. "She's a Dutch Varick for obstinacy, but the rest is Ormond–all Ormond. Ride on, George, and tell those rebel fools at Fonda's Bush that they should be hunting cover in the forts if folk at the Fish-House read that smoke aright. Follow the Brandt-Meester if Dorothy slips you, and tell her I'll birch her, big as she is, if she's not home by the new moon rise."

Then he dragged his hat over his mottled ears, grasped the bridle and galloped on, followed by old Cato and his red coat and curly horn.

I had ridden a cautious mile on the dim, leafy trail ere I picked up Van Horn, only to quit him. I had ridden full three before I caught sight of Dorothy, sitting her gray horse, head at gaze in my direction.

"What in the world set you tearing off through the forest like that?" I asked, laughing.

She turned her horse and we walked on, side by side.

"I wished to come," she said, simply. "The pleasures of this day must end only with the night. Besides, I was burning to ask you if it is true that you mean to stay here and serve with our militia?"

"I mean to stay," I said, slowly.

"And serve?"

"If they desire it."

"Why?" she asked, raising her bright eyes.

I thought a moment, then said:

"I have decided to resist our King's soldiers."

"But why here?" she repeated, clear eyes still on mine. "Tell me the truth."

"I think it is because you are here," I said, soberly.

The loveliest smile parted her lips.

"I hoped you would say that.... Do I please you? Listen, cousin: I have a mad impulse to follow you–to be hindered rages me beyond endurance–as when Sir Lupus called me back. For, within the past hour the strangest fancy has possessed me that we have little time left to be together; that I should not let one moment slip to enjoy you."

"Foolish prophetess," I said, striving to laugh.

"A prophetess?" she repeated under her breath. And, as we rode on through the forest dusk, her head drooped thoughtfully, shaded by her loosened hair. At last she looked up dreamily, musing aloud:

"No prophetess, cousin; only a child, nerveless and over-fretted with too much pleasure, tired out with excitement, having played too hard. I do not know quite how I should conduct. I am unaccustomed to comrades like you, cousin; and, in the untasted delights of such companionship, have run wild till my head swims wi' the humming thoughts you stir in me, and I long for a dark, still room and a bed to lie on, and think of this day's pleasures."

After a silence, broken only by our horses treading the moist earth: "I have been starving for this companionship.... I was parched!… Cousin, have you let me drink too deeply? Have you been too kind? Why am I in this new terror lest you–lest you tire of me and my silly speech? Oh, I know my thoughts have been too long pent! I could talk to you forever! I could ride with you till I died! I am like a caged thing loosed, I tell you–for I may tell you, may I not, cousin?"

"Tell me all you think, Dorothy."

"I could tell you all–everything! I never had a thought that I do not desire you to know, … save one.... And that I do desire to tell you … but cannot.... Cousin, why did you name your mare Isene?"

"An Indian girl in Florida bore that name; the Seminoles called her Issena."

"And so you named your mare from her?"

"Yes."

"Was she your friend–that you named your mare from her?"

"She lived a century ago–a princess. She wedded with a Huguenot."

"Oh," said Dorothy, "I thought she was perhaps your sweetheart."

"I have none."

"You never had one?"

"No."

"Why?"

I turned in my saddle.

"Why have you never had a gallant?"

"Oh, that is not the same. Men fall in love–or protest as much. And at wine they boast of their good fortunes, swearing each that his mistress is the fairest, and bragging till I yawn to listen.... And yet you say you never had a sweetheart?"

"Neither titled nor untitled, cousin. And, if I had, at home we never speak of it, deeming it a breach of honor."

"Why?"

"For shame, I suppose."

"Is it shameless to speak as I do?" she asked.

"Not to me, Dorothy. I wish you might be spared all that unlicensed gossip that you hear at table–not that it could harm such innocence as yours! For, on my honor, I never knew a woman such as you, nor a maid so nobly fashioned!"

I stopped, meeting her wide eyes.

"Say it," she murmured. "It is happiness to hear you."

"Then hear me," I said, slowly. "Loyalty, devotion, tenderness, all are your due; not alone for the fair body that holds your soul imprisoned, but for the pure tenant that dwells in it so sweetly behind the blue windows of your eyes! Dorothy! Dorothy! Have I said too much? Yet I beg that you remember it, lest you forget me when I have gone from you.... And say to Sir George that I said it.... Tell him after you are wedded, and say that all men envy him, yet wish him well. For the day he weds he weds the noblest woman in all the confines of this earth!"

Dazed, she stared at me through the fading light; and I saw her eyes all wet in the shadow of her tangled hair and the pulse beating in her throat.