“It is a beautiful sight; but would be more exhilarating if the flag was what it ought to be,” said Robert.
The twilight had not faded from the sky when Robert accompanied Miss Newville to her home. Officers of the king’s regiments lifted their hats to her upon the way; their attentions were recognized with dignified grace. Robert saw scowls on their faces as they glared at him, as if to challenge his right to be her escort.
“The night is hot and the air sultry, and if you please, Mr. Walden, we will sit in the garden rather than in the house,” she said.
They strolled beneath the trees bending with the weight of ripening fruit, and seated themselves in a rustic arbor. The early grapes were purpling above them.
“I do not know, Mr. Walden, that I quite comprehended your meaning when you said the flag would be more beautiful if it were what it ought to be. I think it very beautiful as it is.”
“I did not have reference, Miss Newville, to the texture or quality of the cloth, or the arrangement of colors, neither to the devices,—the crosses of St. George and St. Andrew,—but thought of it as a symbol of power. My father fought under it, and it has waved in triumph on many battlefields; but just now it is being used to deprive us of our rights.”
“Have you ever read the legend of St. George?” she asked.
“I have not, and I hardly know what the Cross of St. George stands for.”
“It is a beautiful story. I read it not long ago in a book which I found in Mr. Knox’s store. Would you like to hear it?”