In the silence which followed, Sir William leaned forward, his heavy chin set on his fists, his eyes looking into the future which he alone saw so clearly.
None durst interrupt him. The officers watched him silently—this great man—this great Irishman who had been the sole architect of his own greatness; this great American who saw what we, even now, cannot see as clearly as did he.
There he sat, dumb, eyes on vacancy; a plain man, a Baronet of the British realm, a member of the King's Council, a major-general of militia, and the superintendent of the Indian Department in North America.
A plain man; but a vast land-holder, the one man in America trusted blindly by the Indians, a man whose influence was enormous; a man who was as simple as a maid, as truthful as a child, as kind as the Samaritan who passed not on the other side.
A plain man, but a prophet.
There was a step at the door; Mr. Duncan spoke in a low tone with the orderly, then returned to Sir William.
"The Indian belt-bearer is at the block-house, sir," he said.
Sir William rose. The officers made their adieux and left. Only Sir William, Mistress Molly, Silver Heels, and I remained in the dining-hall.
The Baronet looked across at Mistress Molly, and a sad smile touched his eyes.
She took Silver Heels by the hand and quietly left the room.