An officer of the Palatine Regiment carrying a torch came up to Joe Scott, where our little company stood at ease along the hedge fence.
"What troops are these, sir?" he inquired, indicating us with a nervous gesture.
And when he was informed:
"Oho!" said he, "there should be material for rangers among your farmer-militia. Pick me two men for Colonel Dayton who live by rifle and trap and who know the wilderness from Albany to the Lakes."
So our captain told off Nick Stoner and me, and we stepped out of the ranks into the red torch-glow.
"Thank you, sir," said the Palatine officer to our Captain. And to us: "Follow me, lads."
He was a brisk, handsome and smartly uniformed officer of militia; and his cheerful demeanor heartened me who had lately witnessed such humiliations and disgrace.
We followed him through the stockade gate and into the great house, so perfectly familiar to me in happier days.
Excepting for the noise and confusion of officers coming and going, there was no disorder within; the beautiful furniture stood ranged in stately symmetry; the pictures hung on the walls; but I saw no silver anywhere, and all the candlesticks were pewter.
As we came to the library, an officer in the uniform of a colonel of the Continental Line turned from a group of men crowded around the centre table, on which lay a map. Nick Stoner and I saluted his epaulettes.