My mind, occupied by my report, which I was now reading where I had written it in my carnet, nevertheless seemed crowded with other thoughts,—how we would seem each to the other when we met again,—Penelope Grant and I. And if she would seem to take a pleasure in my return ... perhaps say as much ... smile, perhaps.... And we might walk a little on the new grass under the apple bloom....
A troubled mind! And knew not the why and wherefore of its own restlessness and apprehension. For the sky was softly blue, and the water, too; and a gentle wind aided our paddles, which pierced the stream so silently that scarce a diamond-drop fell from the sunlit blades.
I could see the Summer House, and a striped jack flying in the sun. The green and white lodge seemed very near across the marshes, yet it was some little time before I first smelled the smoke of camp fires, and then saw it rising above the bushes.
Presently a Continental on guard hailed our canoe. We landed. A corporal came, then a sergeant,—one Caspar Quant, whom I knew,—and so we were passed on, my Indian and I, until the gate-guard at the Point halted us and an officer came from the roadside,—one Captain Van Pelt, whom I knew in Albany.
Saluted, and the officer's salute rendered, he became curious to see the fresh scalps flapping at my Saguenay's girdle, and the new war-paint and the oil smelling rank in the sweet air.
But I told him nothing, asking only for the Commandant, who, he gave account, was a certain Major Westfall, lodging at the Summer House, and lately transferred from the Massachusetts Line, along with other Yankee officers—why?—God and Massachusetts knew, perhaps.
So I passed the gate and walked toward the lodge. Sir John's blooded cattle were grazing ahead, and I saw Flora at the well, and Colas busy among beds of garden flowers, spading and weeding under the south porch.
And I saw something else that halted me. For, seated upon a low limb of an apple tree, her two little feet hanging down, and garbed in pink-flowered chintz and snowy fichu, I beheld Penelope Grant, a-knitting.
And by all the pagan gods!—there in a ring around her strolled and lolled a dozen Continental officers in buff and blue and gold!
There was no reason why, but the scene chilled me.