He placed the scarlet cloak over her shoulders, and the officers shouted for madam, for the Governor, for Rochambeau, and for the soldiers of the banner of Auvergne sans tache.
How noble, indeed, Madam Faith looked as she stood there in the scarlet cloak, its gold threads glimmering in the first firelight!
Her face glowed. She tried to speak, but could only say: “My heart is full, General. But any soldier who sleeps to-night on the battle-field is nobler than I—my heart would cover him with this cloak.”
The officers shouted enthusiastically: “Auvergne!”
The Governor stood off from his wife and her dazzling garment.
“You do look real pretty, Faith—wear it in memory of the French—wear it to church—your wearing it will honor the cause, and be a service to liberty. I wish Washington could see you now.”
“I will wear it,” said Madam Faith. “My heart thanks you!” she said to Rochambeau. She began to retreat from the room, her face almost as red as the cloak, and her eyes bright with tears. “I thank you in the name of Liberty!” She moved farther away and out of the door.
“Going, Faith?” asked the Governor.
There came back a voice—“God bless you!”—the scarlet cloak had gone. She thought that it was unworthy of her to remain where she would secure homage, when the Connecticut soldiers had had scarcely clothes to wear in their march against Clinton in the midst of the poverty that had befallen the colonies during the war.
She became greatly distressed. In her enthusiasm for the French deliverers she had promised to wear the cloak until some one more worthy of it could be found, some one who needed it more.