“Sir,” said he to Peyton, politely, “I know the custom of war. But since a horse must be taken, you will find one of mine in the stable. Will you not take it instead of this lady’s?”
Peyton had been scrutinizing Colden’s features.
“Mr. Colden, if I remember,” he said, when the major had finished.
“You remember right,” said Colden, with a bow, concealing behind a not too well assumed quietude what inward tremors the situation caused him.
“And you are doubtless now an officer in some Tory corps?” said Peyton, quickly.
“No, sir, I am neutral,” replied Colden, rather huskily, with an instant’s glance of warning at Elizabeth.
“Gad!” said Peyton, with a smile, still closely surveying the major. “From your sentiments the time I met you in New York in ’75, I should have thought you’d take up arms for the King.”
“That was before the Declaration of Independence,” said Colden, in a tone scarcely more than audible. “I have modified my opinions.”
“They were strong enough then,” Peyton went on. “You remember how you upheld them with a rapier in Bayard’s woods?”