At the words red stripes, all eyes, as by one impulse, turned to the scarlet cloak. It would furnish the ornament of dignity and honor to a score of uniforms.
“Women of Lebanon, you have with willing hands laid much on the altar of liberty. Under the pulpit stands a rail that guards holy things. I appeal to you once more—I hope that it may be for the last time—to spare all you can for the help and comfort of the soldier. Come up to the altar one by one and put your offerings inside of the rail, and I will lift my hands over your sacrifices in prayer and benediction.”
Silence. A few women began to remove the rings from their fingers and ears. One woman was seen to loosen her Rob Roy shawl. Two Indian girls removed strings of wampum from their necks. But no one rose. All seemed waiting.
The Governor sat in his chair, and beside him his good wife in the red Rochambeau cloak. They were in the middle aisle.
Madam Trumbull was thinking. Could she offer the scarlet garment to the cause without implying a want of gratitude toward the noble Rochambeau?
Would she not honor Rochambeau by offering the gift to the camp and battle-field?
“Stripes on the soldiers’ garments are inspirations,” she may have whispered to her husband. “I am going to give my cloak—it shall follow Rochambeau—I am going to make it live and march—he shall see it again in the lines that dare death. Shall I go to the altar?”
“Yes, go. Send your cloak to Rochambeau again. Let it move on the march. You will honor the regiment of Auvergne—Auvergne sans tache.”
She rose, almost trembling. Every eye was fixed upon her. Madam Faith was held in more than common esteem, not only because she was the wife of the Governor, but also because she was a descendant of the Prophet of the Pilgrims of Leyden and Plymouth.
She stood by the Governor’s chair, unfastening the red garment. The people saw what she was about to do. Some of them bowed their heads; some wept.