“Take that,” he cried savagely, emptying a glass of rum on the patroon’s waistcoat. Then, waving his arms drunkenly, he began to sing:
“Klink the can,
Let every man—
Down with Van Volkenberg.”
In the uproar that followed I was aware of but two facts. The patroon was dragged off by his companion through one door, and Pierre by the crowd through another. In the midst of the pushing and shoving about the street door someone plucked my elbow. It was Kirstoffel, the host, with his finger to his lips.
“His offense is ducking,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards Pierre. “But you. Gott, man! You’ve killed three of the patroon’s best men. I would not be in your shoes for a month’s brew. You will be up for——.” He pointed significantly, first at his neck and then at a beam over head. “Take my advice. Seek you the French dominie. He has got a great hold on Lady Marmaduke as well as the governor. But don’t stand still on your legs or you will hang fast by your neck.”
The fact that I was in unusual danger on account of my part in the brawl of the morning came home to me now for the first time. I resolved to take Kirstoffel’s advice without delay, feeling keenly the danger of my situation. I inquired where the house of the Huguenot pastor was and then asked the name of the person who had been so eager to restrain the patroon’s wrath.
“That? That was Colonel Fletcher, the governor of the province before this one came to the fort.”
It was a strange coincidence that I should be thus thrown against the only two men in New York from whom I had expected any help. All this time I still held the silver button clasped in my hand. I put it back into my pocket and set out along the street in search of the minister who I hoped would be able to assist me out of my difficult situation.