“Then, at least, you will have guns fired, and also send a man to one of our outposts for help?” There was no pretence in the young man’s solicitude. Such a bride as Elizabeth Philipse was not to be found every day. The thought of losing her was poignant misery to him.
“To which one?” she asked. “The Hessian camp by Tippett’s Brook, or the Highlanders’, at Valentine’s Hill?”
“No,” said Colden, meditating. “Those may be withdrawn if the weather is bad. Send to the barrier at King’s Bridge,—but if your man meets one of our patrols or pickets on the way, so much the better. Good-by! I shall see your father to-night, and then rejoin my regiment on Staten Island.”
He took her hand, bent over it, and kissed it.
“Be careful you don’t fall in with those rebel dragoons,” said Elizabeth, lightly, as his lips dwelt on her fingers.
“No danger of that,” put in old Valentine, from the settle, for the moment ceasing to chew an imaginary cud. “They took the road to Mile Square.” The octogenarian’s hearing was better than his sight.
“I shall notify our officers below that this rebel force is out,” said Colden, “and our dragoons may cut it off somewhere. Farewell, then! I shall return for you in a week.”
“In a week,” repeated Elizabeth, indifferently.