“I remember,” said Colden, faintly, first reddening, then taking on a pale and sickly look, as if a prey to hidden chagrin and rage.
It seemed as if his tormentor intended to torture him interminably. Peyton, who knew that one of his men would come for him as soon as the horse should be saddled and bridled, remained facing the unhappy major, wearing that frank half-smile which, from the triumphant to the crestfallen, seems so insolent and is so maddening.
“I’ve often thought,” said Peyton, “I deserved small credit for getting the better of you that day. I had taken lessons from London fencing-masters.” (Consider that the woman whom Colden loved was looking on, and that this was all news to her, and imagine how he raged beneath the outer calmness he had, for safety’s sake, to wear.) “’Twas no hard thing to disarm you, and I’m not sorry you’re neutral now. For if you wore British or Tory uniform, ’twould be my duty to put you again at disadvantage, by taking you prisoner.”
The face of one of Peyton’s men now appeared in the doorway. Peyton nodded to him, then continued to address the major.
“As for your request, my traps are now on the other horse, and there is not time to change. I must ride at once.”
He stepped quickly to the door, and on the threshold turned to bow.
Then cried Elizabeth:
“May you ride to your destruction, for your impudence, you bandit!”
“Thank you, madam! I shall ride where I must! Farewell! My horse is waiting.”