“Clifford!” ejaculated Peggy starting up in surprise, and confronting the youth, who had approached them unnoticed.
“Yes, Clifford,” returned the lad who was evidently in a passion. “’Tis quite time that Clifford came, is it not? As I was saying, ’twill not do to take this gentleman from his arduous duties. This Yankee captain meddles altogether too much in our private affairs. It is not at all to my liking.”
“So?” remarked Drayton cheerfully. He had not changed his position, but sat slightly smiling, eyeing the other youth curiously.
“No, sir,” repeated Clifford heatedly. “We will not trouble you, sir. Further, we can dispense with your presence immediately.”
“That,” observed Drayton shifting his position to one of more ease, “that, sir, is for Peggy to decide.”
“My cousin’s name is Mistress Margaret Owen,” cried Clifford. “You will oblige me by using it so when ’tis necessary to address her. Better still, pleasure me by not speaking to her at all.”
“Clifford, thou art beside thyself,” cried Peggy who had been too astonished at the attitude of her cousin to speak. “John is a dear friend. I have known him longer than I have thee, and——”
“Peggy, keep out of this affair, I beg,” cried he stiffly. “The matter lies betwixt this fellow and myself. Captain, I cry you pardon, sir,”—interrupting himself to favor Drayton with an ironic bow,—“I fear me that I rank you too high. Lieutenant, is’t not?”
“Nay, captain. Captain Drayton, at your service, sir.” The American arose slowly, and made a profound obeisance. “Methinks at our last little chat I remarked that perchance another victory would so honor me. ’Twas at Hobkirk’s Hill.”
“You said a victory, sir,” cried the other with passion. “Hobkirk’s Hill was a defeat for the rebels.”