He was a handsome man, of twenty-one or twenty-two, of dark and swarthy features, thick lips and nose, and hair as black as night, telling of the Indian blood in his veins.
His name was Rodolph, and he was the son of a man more noted for his wealth than for his principles, but who was then at the city of Annapolis, a delegate from the county of Cecil.
"I propose a toast," he cried, "that all true patriots should drink. A toast to the delegates of this county, who at the convention of the province in the city of Annapolis are standing as the bulwarks of liberty against the tyranny of the Crown."
We were all on our feet in an instant to drink the toast, with a right goodwill, all except Charles Gordon, who sat at my right hand. He kept his seat and watched us with a cool, sarcastic smile upon his lips.
"Is not the toast good enough for you?" cried Rodolph, with an ugly sneer upon his face.
All eyes now turned to where Charles Gordon sat, and he slowly rose.
"Drink to your delegates?" said he. "Not I. They are the scum of the county of Cecil, and you know it. I would as soon be governed by my slaves at the Braes as by such men as they are. I wish you joy of them." And bowing, he turned and left the room by a door that was near at hand.
For an instant there was silence, then an uproar broke forth, and Rodolph sprang around the table to follow him, with several of the young men at his heels. But I, seeing the danger, with possibly a thought of a fair maid's eyes, threw myself before the door with drawn sword.
"No man passes through this door," I cried, "unless he passes over me."
The crowd drew back in surprise.