"Yes sir--Gates was a poor stick--I never thought much of him. That fellow Arnold distinguished himself in the actions before Burgoyne's surrender. He fought like a brave man. It seems strange that so mean a scamp should have had so much blood in him?"
"Why, are great fighters generally good men, grandpa?" said Fleda.
"Not exactly, dear!" replied her grandfather;--"but such little-minded rascality is not just the vice one would expect to find in a gallant soldier."
"Those were times that made men," said Mr. Carleton musingly.
"Yes," answered the old gentleman gravely,--"they were times that called for men, and God raised them up. But Washington was the soul of the country, sir!"
"Well, the time made him," said Mr. Carleton.
"I beg your pardon," said the old gentleman with a very decided little turn of his head,--"I think he made the time. I don't know what it would have been, sir, or what it would have come to, but for him. After all, it is rather that the things which try people shew what is in them;--I hope there are men enough in the country yet, though they haven't as good a chance to shew what they are."
"Either way," said his guest smiling; "it is a happiness, Mr. Ringgan, to have lived at a time when there was something worth living for."
"Well--I don't know--" said the old gentleman;--"those times would make the prettiest figure in a story or a romance, I suppose; but I've tried both, and on the whole," said he with another of his looks at Fleda,--"I think I like these times the best!"
Fleda smiled her acquiescence. His guest could not help thinking to himself that however pacific might be Mr. Ringgan's temper, no man in those days that tried men could have brought to the issue more stern inflexibility and gallant fortitude of bearing. His frame bore evidence of great personal strength, and his eye, with all its mildness, had an unflinching dignity that could never have quailed before danger or duty. And now, while he was recalling with great animation and pleasure the scenes of his more active life, and his blue eye was shining with the fire of other days, his manner had the self-possession and quiet sedateness of triumph that bespeak a man always more ready to do than to say. Perhaps the contemplation of the noble Roman-like old figure before him did not tend to lessen the feeling, even the sigh of regret, with which the young man said,