“That I can not tell. I think that he sang the Psalm that we sing to the words
‘God is the refuge of his saints,
Though storms of sharp distress invade.’
Let us sing that now. The storm that tossed the shallop of the Mayflower broke; the clouds lifted. So it will be at Valley Forge. Knit and sing.”
And the knitters sang. The storm rose to a gale. Shutters banged, and there was only the tavern lights to be seen across the black green.
Suddenly a strange thing happened.
Peter opened the door, hat in hand.
“Madam Trumbull,” said he, “may I speak to you?”
“Yes, Peter, boy; what have you to say?”
“I saw a strange man at Valley Forge. He was young—a Frenchman.