In the parlor, the two enemies were facing each 263 other, Peyton on his chair, his tied wrists behind him, Colden standing at some distance from him, holding the broken sword. As soon as they were alone, Peyton uttered another one-syllabled laugh, and said:
“The hospitality of this house beats my recollection. One is always coming back to it.”
“You’ll not come back the next time you leave it!” said Major Colden, his eyes glittering with gratified rancor.
“And when shall that time be?” asked Peyton, airily.
“As soon as two of my men arrive, whom I outrode on my way hither to-night. They attended me out of New York. I shall be generous and give them over to you, to attend you into New York.”
“Thanks for the escort!”
“’Tis the only kind you rebels ever have, when you enter New York,” sneered the major.
“We shall enter it with an escort of our own choosing some day! And a sorry day that for you Tories and refugees, my dear gentleman!”
“But if that day ever comes, you’ll have been rotting underground a long time,—and thanks to me, don’t forget that!”
“Thanks to her, you coward!” cried Peyton. “’Twas she that sent her servants after me! You didn’t dare try taking me, alone!”