But Dunn told of Matson’s ford still unguarded, and the commander was quick to seize the one chance left to save his men, and before midnight the little band was safely over the river, with their faces toward Valley Forge. There they were received with cheers by their comrades, who, having heard some wild rumours brought by two countrymen from beyond the Schuylkill, had feared the worst for them.
That night, long after Richard was sleeping the sleep of healthy but exhausted youth, Dunn sat in the officers’ quarters and told how, with a military rain-coat over his workman’s blouse, Richard Clevering had played the gallant to the beauty of Philadelphia and the fiancée of Howe’s chief of staff.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MAID’S DREAM AND THE DEVIL’S WOOING.
“A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was:
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever flushing round a summer sky.”
—Thompson.
It was June-time in the beautiful hill country along the Eno. Down the long road that sloped to the bridge from the west two horses took their leisurely way, while their riders talked or were silent at will. Below them, in the curve of the river, lay the town in a green summer dream; the roadside was lined with nodding blossom heads, and the thickets were a-rustle now and then with the subdued whir of wings, for the song season of their feathered tenants was done, and sparrow and wren and bluebird were busy with family cares.
“Joscelyn, you are not listening to a word I am saying,” complained Mary Singleton, petulantly, after repeating a question a second time and getting no answer.