"Only one, I think," and she smiled down at me tremulously, her eyes full of tears.
"Yes, Colonel Washington," I said, after a moment's thought. "Perhaps he is braver."
"I was not thinking of Colonel Washington, Tom," and her lips began to tremble.
I gazed at her a moment in amazement.
"You do not mean me, Dorothy?" I cried. "Oh, no; I am not brave. You do not know how frightened I grow when the bullets whistle around me."
She laid her fingers on my lips with the prettiest motion in the world.
"Hush," she said. "I will not listen to such blasphemy."
"At least," I protested, "I am not so brave as you,—no, nor as your mother, Dorothy. I had no thought that she was such a gallant woman."
"Ah, you do not know my mother!" she cried. "But you shall know her some day, Tom. Nor has she known you, though I think she is beginning to know you better, now."
There were many things I wished to hear,—many questions that I asked,—and I learned how Sam had galloped on until he reached the fort, how he had given the alarm, how Colonel Washington himself had ridden forth twenty minutes later at the head of fifty men,—all who could be spared,—and had spurred on through the night, losing the road more than once and searching for it with hearts trembling with fear lest they should be too late, and how they had not been too late, but had saved us,—saved Dorothy.