The next morning—although at rather a late hour for her—Dorothy arose, feeling greatly refreshed by her sound and dreamless sleep.
While she was yet dressing, her brother rapped on the door, and told her she was to go to the little room near by, where supper had been served the night before, and that Dolly—the sutler's wife—would have breakfast ready for her.
An hour later, as she stood at the open window of her room, drinking in the fresh morning air, still bearing the odor of fallen leaves wetted by the night damps, she saw her brother, with Captain Southorn and several other men, chatting together a short distance away.
Jack was the first to turn his eyes in her direction, and seeing her, he smiled and waved his hand, at which Captain Southorn turned about and hurried toward her.
He was soon standing under the window, and reaching up took possession of one of the small hands resting upon the sill.
For an instant neither of them spoke, but Dorothy's dark eyes smiled shyly into the blue ones uplifted to her face.
"And it is really true," he said at last, with an air of conviction. "Do you know, little one, that when I awakened this morning, I was fearful at first that I 'd been dreaming it all. But knowing now what I do, how can I have the heart to go away and leave you again? Cannot you come to Boston with me now—this very day?"
She shook her head. "No, no,—I must not do that. I must go back to Dorchester, to see Mary and Mistress Knollys once more. And, too"—with a blush—"I could not go without any raiment besides this." And she touched the folds of her riding-habit.
He stood a minute as if thinking, and then asked if she would come out for a short walk.
"Most assuredly," was her smiling response; and turning from the window, she was not long in putting on her hat.
As she was about leaving the room, she noticed her riding-whip lying on the table where she had tossed it upon her arrival the previous evening. It was a gift from her father, and one she prized very highly; and fearing that the sight of it might excite the cupidity of some of the servants, she picked it up, and then passed quickly out to the porch.
Here she encountered several of the officers whom she had seen talking with her brother a short time before. They now drew aside to let her go by, which she did hurriedly, her eyes lowered under the shadowy plumes of her riding-hat, and oblivious of the admiring glances they stole at her.
Many of the inmates of Washington's headquarters had become acquainted with her little romance; and so, unknown to herself, she was an object of much interest. It was for this reason also, as well as on account of the responsibility assumed with regard to him by Washington himself, that the English captain was occupying a somewhat unusual position amongst the American officers.
Finding her brother and husband together, the two coming to meet her at the porch, Dorothy asked after Hugh, and was told by Jack that he had gone with a message to some of the outposts, but would return shortly.
"And is he well this morning, Jack?"
"Oh, yes," her brother answered lightly. "You will not go far away, of course," he added, "nor stay long, else I shall have to come or send for you."
"Only a short distance;" and Captain Southorn motioned to the wood that lay not far from the rear of the house.
"Who is this Hugh?" he inquired, as they walked slowly along, the dry leaves crackling under their feet. "Is he the sergeant, Hugh Knollys, who went with your brother yesterday?"
"Yes;" and something in his tone impelled her to add, "and I've known him all my life."
"Oh, yes," he said, knitting his brows a little, as he kicked the leaves before him, "I remember right well. It was he I used to see riding about the country with you so much last summer."
"He is like my own brother," she explained quickly, not feeling quite comfortable in something she detected in his manner of speech.
"Is he?" now looking at her smilingly. "And does he regard you in the same fraternal fashion?"
"Why, of course," she answered frankly. "Hugh and I have always known one another; we have gone riding and boating together for years, have quarrelled and made up, just as Jack and I have done. Only," and now she spoke musingly, "I cannot remember that Jack ever quarrelled much with me."
"No, I should say not, from what I've seen of him," her husband said heartily.
By this time they were in the seclusion of the wood; and now his arms went about her and held her fast.
"Sweetheart, tell me once more that you love me," he said. "I only brought you here to have you tell it to me again, and in broad daylight."
She rested her head on his arm and smiled up into his face.
"How many times must I tell you?"
"With each sweet breath you draw, if you tell me as many times as I would wish to hear. But this is certain to be the last moment I shall have to see you alone, as you are to start for Dorchester, and I for Boston. And you will surely—surely join me there as soon as I send you word?" He spoke eagerly, and as if fearful that something might arise to make her change her mind.
"Yes, to be sure I will,—have I not promised?"
"That you have, God bless you. And you will let no one turn you from that, little one?"
"Why, who should?" She opened her eyes in surprise, and then there came a flash to them. "No, no, even if every one was to try, they could not do it now. What is that?"
She started nervously, and turned her head quickly about, as they both heard a rustling in the bushes.
"It is only a rabbit or squirrel," her husband said, "or perhaps a—"
There was the sharp report of a gun close by, and a bullet grazed his shoulder and struck the tree-trunk directly over Dorothy's head. The next instant there came the sound of trampling and fierce struggling; and a voice Dorothy knew at once, cried, "You sneaking dastard, what murder is it you 're up to?"
"Stop here, little one," said Captain Southorn, calmly, "just a second, until I see what all this means." And he plunged into the tangled thicket beside the path in which they had been standing.
But Dorothy followed him closely; and a few yards away they came upon Hugh Knollys, towering angrily over a man lying prostrate on the ground, and whom Dorothy recognized instantly as the rude fellow who had so alarmed her at the inn.
At sight of the two figures breaking through the underbrush, Hugh started in surprise, and a look which Dorothy found it hard to understand showed in his face.
"What is it—what is the matter?" Captain Southorn demanded angrily, stepping toward the two other men.
Hugh did not reply, and now they heard rapid footsteps approaching.
"Here, this way,—come here!" shouted Hugh, who did not appear to have heard the young Englishman's question.
Farmer Gilbert had arisen slowly to his feet, and did not attempt to escape from the grasp Hugh still kept upon his arm.
"Oh, Hugh—what is it?" asked Dorothy, looking with frightened eyes at his prisoner.
"Never mind now, Dot," he answered hastily, but his voice softening. "How came you here? You should not—" Then, with a half-sulky glance as of apology to the young Englishman, he bit his lip and was silent.
"We were standing in the path just now," said Captain Southorn, "when a bullet came so close to us as to do this;" and he touched the torn cloth on his shoulder.
Hugh started. "Then it must have been you he was shooting at!" he exclaimed, glancing angrily at the prisoner.
"The bullet went just over my head and into a tree," said Dorothy, continuing her husband's explanation.
"Over your head, Dot!" cried Hugh. "So close to you as that!" And a terrible look came to his face,—one that revealed his secret to the purple-blue eyes watching him so keenly. "Oh—my God!"
The appearance of several men—soldiers—cut the words short, and restored Hugh's calmness, for, turning to them, he bade them take the man and guard him carefully.
"And I'll take this gun of yours," he said to him, "and see to it that you get the treatment you deserve for such a cowardly bit of work."
"Wait a bit, till I answers him," said Farmer Gilbert, now speaking for the first time, as he turned to face Hugh, and holding back, so as to arrest the steps of the men who were dragging him away. "I want to say, young sir, that if ye had n't sneaked up on me from aback, an' knocked my gun up, I'd hev done what I've been dodgin' 'round to do these five days past—an' that were to put a bullet through the head or d——d trait'rous heart o' that British spy in petticoats."
His face was ablaze with passion, and he shook his clenched fist at Dorothy, who stood looking at him as though he were a wild beast caught in the toiler's net.
Captain Southorn started forward; but Hugh motioned him back. Then realizing the full sense of the fellow's words, he sprang upon him with an oath such as no one had ever heard issue from his lips.
Falling upon the defenceless man, he shook him fiercely. Then he seemed to struggle for a proper control of himself, and asked chokingly, "Do you mean to tell me that it was her you were aiming at when I caught you?"
He pointed to Dorothy, who was now clinging to her husband; and even in that moment Hugh saw his arm steal about her protectingly.
He turned his eyes away, albeit the sight helped to calm his rage, as the bitter meaning of it swept over him.
"Aye—it was," the man answered doggedly, nodding his bushy head; "an' ye may roll me o'er the ground again, like a log that has no feelin', an' send me to prison atop it all, for tryin' to do my country a sarvice by riddin' it of a spy."
The soldiers who were holding him looked significantly at each other and then at Dorothy, who was still standing within the protecting arm of the man they knew to be an English officer, and a prisoner who had been captured, alone and at night, close to the spot where the Commander-in-Chief was engaged in a conference with some of his subordinates.
Despite the fright to which she had been subjected, the girl was quick to see all this, and the suspicion to which it pointed. And she now astonished them all by leaving her husband's side, to advance rapidly until she stood facing the soldiers and their prisoner, who cowered away as he saw the flash of her eyes, and her small figure drawn to its utmost height.
"Do you dare say to my face that I am a British spy—I, Dorothy Devereux, of Marblehead, whose only brother is an officer in Glover's regiment? You lying scoundrel—take that!" And raising her riding-whip, she cut him sharply across the face, the thin lash causing a crimson welt to show upon its already florid hue. "And that," giving him another cut. "And do you go to General Washington, and tell him your wicked story, and I doubt not he'll endorse the writing of the opinion I've put upon your cowardly face for saying such evil falsehoods of me!"
"Dot—Dorothy—whatever does this mean?" It was the voice of her brother, as he dashed to her side and caught her arm, now lifted for another blow.
She shivered, and the whip fell to the ground, while Hugh ordered the men to take their prisoner away.
They obeyed, grinning shyly at each other, and now feeling assured that no British spy was amongst them.
Captain Southorn had stood motionless, looking at Dorothy in unconcealed amazement. But her quick punishment of the fellow's insult seemed to have a good effect upon Hugh Knollys, for his face now showed much of its sunny good-nature.
The sight of what she had done, no less than the sound of her voice, had brought back the impetuous, wilful Dot of bygone days; and he found himself thinking again of the little maid whose ears he boxed because of the spilled bullets, years ago.
"Dorothy, speak,—what is it?" her brother demanded. "Hugh?" and he turned questioningly, as Dorothy threw herself into his arms.
"He called me a British spy," she sobbed, "and tried to shoot me!"
He held her closer, while he listened to Hugh and Captain Southorn as they told him of all that had passed.
It appeared that Hugh, returning through the woods from his mission to the outposts, had found a horse tied not far away from where they were now standing. This struck him as something unusual; and looking about, he noticed that the bushes were trampled and broken in a direction which seemed to lead toward Washington's headquarters.
Suspecting a possible spy, he had cautiously followed the plainly marked way, and soon caught sight of a man dodging about, as if not wishing to be seen, and so intent upon watching something in front of him as to be quite unconscious of Hugh's approach.
Stealing as close as possible, Hugh stood silent, now aware that the man's attention was centred upon the regular pathway through the wood.
Presently he saw him raise his gun, and feared it might be Washington himself at whom he was aiming; for he knew the Commander-in-Chief was to be abroad that morning, and he made no doubt that this was some emissary of the enemy bent upon murdering him.
Thinking only of this, Hugh had thrown himself upon the man, but too late to prevent the discharge of the gun, although he succeeded in diverting its aim.
"And saved her life!" exclaimed Captain Southorn and John Devereux together.
Hugh uttered no word until Dorothy turned to him suddenly and took his hand, while she looked up at him in a way that needed no speech.
"Never mind, Dot," he said huskily. "You gave him a fine lesson, just such as he deserved, and it does me good to think of it. Only, I'd like to have done it myself."
She blushed, and dropped his hand, stealing a sidewise glance at her husband, who was looking at Hugh and herself.
Jack was now about to speak; but Hugh started quickly, exclaiming, "This will never do; I am forgetting my duty, and must hurry on and make my report."
"One second, Hugh," said Jack; "I have something to say to you."
They walked along together, conversing in low tones, while Dorothy, with a nervous little laugh, said to her husband, "Are you afraid of me, now that you see the temper I possess?"
"Nay, little one," he answered, drawing closer to her and taking her hand. "You did nothing more than the circumstances richly provoked. And," with a teasing laugh, "I do not forget a certain day, in another wood, when my own cheek felt the weight of this same dainty hand's displeasure."
She looked a bit uncomfortable, and he hastened to add, "And I felt afterward that I, too, received but my just deserts for my presumption."
"I always wondered," she said, now smilingly, "what you could think of a young lady who would rig herself up in her brother's raiment, to roam about at night; and who would so far forget herself as to slap a gentleman in the face,—and one of His Majesty's officers at that."
He laughed. "Then you must know, sweet wife," he answered, as she stood looking down, stirring the leaves with her boot tip, "that I only loved you the better, if possible, for it all. It showed you to possess a brave heart and daring spirit, such as are ever the most loyal to the man a true woman loves. But for all those same acts of yours, I'd not have dared to do as I did; but I felt that no other course would lead you to follow the feeling I was sure I read in your eyes."
John Devereux, who had gone out to the roadway with Hugh, now called to them.
"Come, both of you," he said; "it is time to be off."
"This must be our real good-by, little one." Captain Southorn glanced about them, and then put his arm around Dorothy. "We shall both be leaving shortly, and I cannot say good-by properly with a lot of other folk about. Ah," with a shudder, and holding her up to his breast, "when I think of what might have happened, had not your friend Hugh come upon the scene, it makes it all the harder for me to let you go again."
"But there is no danger now," she said courageously; "the man is a prisoner. But whatever could have put such a crazy idea into his head?" she asked indignantly.
"Did you never see him before?" her husband inquired.
"Yes, at the Gray Horse Inn;" but her brother's voice, now calling rather impatiently, cut short her story.
"And will you come when I send word?" Captain Southorn asked.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Well, thank God it will be but a few days until then," he said, giving her a parting kiss. "So for now, my wife,—my own little wife, adieu!"
As they were taking their way to the house, Jack looked at his watch and scowled a little as he saw the lateness of the hour. Then he turned to Dorothy, and inquired, as her husband had done, in regard to her knowledge of Farmer Gilbert.
She told of all that Mary and herself had seen of him at the inn; and her brother's quick perceptions put the facts together while he listened.
They found gathered before the house an unusual number of men, in animated conversation; but as the three figures approached, they all became silent, glancing at the new-comers in a way to indicate that the recent occurrence had formed the subject of their discussion.
Some of them now strolled away, while those who remained—all of them connected with the headquarters—drew aside to let Lieutenant Devereux and his companions pass.
"Do you know if Sergeant Knollys is within, Harris?" Jack inquired, addressing one of them.
"Yes, I am quite sure you will find him inside."
Turning to another of the men, Jack bade him have the horses brought at once, and order the escort to be ready for immediate departure.
"We shall have to hasten, Dot," he said hurriedly, as they went along the hall. "And," addressing her husband, "Captain Southorn, I must now turn you over to Captain Ireson."
"Then I am not like to see you again," said the young Englishman, as he extended his hand.
"No, I should have gone to Boston with you, to escort Captain Pickett on his return, but I have orders to see my small sister safely to the house and care of our neighbor, Mistress Knollys."
"And when are we to meet again?"
He spoke earnestly, almost with emotion, for he had come to have a strong affection for this handsome, high-spirited young Colonist, whose face and manner so resembled Dorothy's.
"Who can say?" asked Jack, sadly, as the two stood with clasped hands, looking fixedly at one another.
"Well, God grant that it be before long, and when our countries are at peace," exclaimed Southorn.
"Amen to that," answered Jack. "And," in a voice that trembled, "you will always be good to—" The sentence was left unfinished, while his arm stole about his sister's shoulders.
"As God is my witness,—always," was the solemn reply.
"And now, Dot," said her brother, with a contented sigh, and speaking in a more cheerful tone, as if now throwing off all his misgivings, "you must bid Captain Southorn farewell for a few days, and we will get under way. But first I have to go with him and report to Captain Ireson."
She held out both hands to her husband, who bent over and pressed them to his lips.
"You will surely come when I send?" he asked softly.
She nodded, looking up at him through her tears.
In half an hour the party of soldiers, with Dorothy and her brother, took the way to Dorchester, Hugh appearing at the last moment to say farewell, as his duty called him in another direction. And it was not long before a smaller party, bearing a flag of truce, set out with Captain Southorn, to effect his exchange for Captain Pickett.
The following day Farmer Gilbert was brought before General Washington, who listened gravely to his attempted justification. Then, after a stern rebuke, so lucid and emphatic as to enlighten the man's dull wits, now made somewhat clearer by his confinement and enforced abstinence, he was permitted to go his way.
A week after this, little Mistress Southorn was escorted to the British lines and handed over to her waiting husband; and a few days later, a transport sailed, taking back to England some disabled officers and soldiers, as well as a small number of royalists, who were forced to leave the country for the one whose cause they espoused too openly.
Dorothy was standing by the ship's rail, alone, her husband having left her for a few minutes. She was busy watching the stir and bustle of departure, when she recognized, in a seeming farmer who had come aboard with poultry, the pedler, Johnnie Strings.
The sight of his shrewd face and keen little eyes brought to her mingled feelings of pleasure and alarm, and, wondering what his mission could be, she hurried toward him.
"Oh, Johnnie, is it safe for you to be here?" she exclaimed, as she grasped his hand.
"Sh-h, sweet mistress!" he said cautiously. "I won't be safe if ye sing out in such fashion. Jest ye get that scared look off yer face, while we talk nat'ral like, for the sake o' them as stands 'round. Ye see I was the only one that could risk comin', an' I'm to carry back the last news o' ye. But oh, Mistress Dorothy," and his voice took a note of expostulation, "however had ye the heart to do it? But o' course we all know 't was not really yer own doin', arter all. I tell ye, mistress, that mornin' at the Sachem's Cave saw the beginnin' of a sight o' mischief."
She passed this by without comment, smiling at him kindly while she gave him many parting messages for those at Dorchester, and for Aunt Lettice and little 'Bitha, and all at the old house.
The pedler promised to deliver them, and then looking into her face, he sighed mournfully.
"Aye, but 't is thankful I am, mistress, that yer old father ne'er lived to see this day."
"Oh, Johnnie, don't say that—how can you?" she cried impulsively.
He saw the pained expression his words had brought, and added hastily, as he drew the back of his hand across his eyes, "There, there, sweet mistress, don't take my foolish words to heart, for my own is so sore this day over all that's come to pass, an' that ye should be goin' away like this, that I scarce know jest what I be sayin'."
Before Dorothy could reply, she saw her husband approaching; and Johnnie, seeing him as well, turned to go.
"Won't you wait and speak to him?" she asked, a little shyly.
"No, no, Mistress Dorothy," was his emphatic answer,—"don't ye ask that o' me. I could n't stummick it—not I. God keep ye, sweet mistress, an' bring ye back to this land some day, when we 've driven out all the d——d redcoats."
With this characteristic blessing, the pedler hastened away, and was soon lost to sight amongst the barrels and casks piled about the wharf.
A few hours later, Dorothy stood with her husband's arm about her, watching through gathering tears the land draw away,—watching it grow dim and shadowy, to fade at last from sight, while all about them lay the purple sea, sparkling under the rays of the late afternoon sun.
Her eyes lingered longest upon the spot in the hazy distance near where she knew lay the beloved old home.
"How far—how far away it is now," she murmured.
"What, little one?" her husband asked softly.
"I was thinking of my old home," she answered, surprised to have spoken her thought aloud. "And," looking about with a shiver, "it seems so far—so lonely all about us here."
"Are you frightened or unhappy?" he asked, drawing her still closer to him.
She looked up with brave, loyal eyes, and answered, as had her ancestress, Anne Devereux, when she and her young husband were about to seek a new home in a strange, far-off land,—
"No—not so long as we be together."
Hugh Knollys fell—a Major in the Massachusetts line—during one of the closing engagements of the war, and his mother did not long survive him.
John Devereux passed through the conflict unharmed, and returned to the farm, where he and Mary lived long and happily, with their children growing up about them.
They had each summer as their guests an Englishman and his wife—a little, girl-like woman, whom every one adored—who crossed the sea to pay them long visits. Sometimes the pleasant days found this Englishman seated in the Sachem's Cave, his eyes wandering off over the sea; and with him often would be Mary Broughton's eldest son, and first-born—Jack, who had his Aunt Dorothy's curling locks and dark eyes.
The favorite story at such times, and one never tired of by either the man or child, was that telling how in the great war his mother had frightened a young English soldier so that he fell over the rocks, and how, soon after this, a certain brave little maid had hurled the burning lanterns from these same rocks, to save her brother and his companions from danger.
The youngster had first heard of all this from Johnnie Strings,—to the day of his death a crippled pensioner on the Devereux farm—who never seemed to realize that the war was over, and who had expressed marked disapproval when 'Bitha, now tall and stately, had, following her Cousin Dorothy's example, and quite regardless of her own long-ago avowals, given her heart and hand to the nephew of this same British soldier.
With this must end my story of the old town. But there is another story,—that of its fisher and sailor soldiers, and it is told in the deeds they have wrought.
These form a goodly part of the foundation upon which rests the mighty fabric of our nation. Their story is one of true, brave hearts; and it is told in a voice that will be heard until the earth itself shall have passed away.
It was the men of Marblehead who stepped forward that bitter winter's night on the banks of the Delaware, when Washington and his little army looked with dismayed eyes upon the powerful current sweeping before them, and which must be crossed, despite the great masses of ice that threatened destruction to whosoever should venture upon its roaring flood. They were the men who responded to his demand when he turned from the menacing dangers of the river and asked, "Who of you will lead on, and put us upon the other side?"
The monument that commemorates the success at Trenton is no less a tribute to the unflinching courage and sturdiness of the fishermen of Marblehead, who made that victory possible.
And, as there, so stands their record during all the days of the Revolutionary struggle. Wherever they were—on land or water—in the attack they led, in the retreat they covered; and through all their deeds shone the ardent patriotism, the calm bravery, the unflinching devotion, that made them ever faithful in the performance of duty.
"When anything is done,People see not the patient doing of it,Nor think how great would be the loss to manIf it had not been done. As in a buildingStone rests on stone, and, wanting a foundation,All would be wanting; so in human life,Each action rests on the foregone eventThat made it possible, but is forgotten,And buried in the earth."
When the dawn of peace came, nowhere was it hailed with more exultant joy than in Marblehead.
Nowhere in all the land had there been such sacrifices made as by the people of this little town by the sea. Many of those who had been wealthy were now reduced to poverty,—their commerce was ruined, their blood had been poured out like water.
But for all this there was no complaining by those who were left, no upbraiding sorrow for those who would never return. There was only joy that the struggle was ended, and independence achieved for themselves and the nation they had helped to create. And down the long vista of years between their day and our own, the hallowed memory of their loyalty shines out as do the lights of the old town over the night sea, whose waves sing for its heroes a fitting requiem.
THE END
Author of "From Kingdom to Colony" and "Lafitte of Louisiana."
12mo. Decorated Cloth. $1.50.
A love story, told with delicacy and grace.—Brooklyn Times.
Humor and pathos, love and adventure, abound throughout the work. Spicy incidents are plentiful.—Atlanta Constitution.
Margaret Leslie is a heroine who deserves a place in Mr. Howells' gallery of immortal heroines in fiction.—Rochester Herald.
Margaret Leslie's brave service in the battle with self is as attractive as the patriotic deeds of Mary Devereux's former heroine.—New York Times Saturday Review.
The story is one of sunshine and shade, of smiles and tears. The author has created for us a little company of people whom we learn to love, and from whom it is hard to part.—Boston Transcript.
The book is charmingly written, the style pure and strong, and the play of native wit engaging.—Outlook, New York.
A genius for depicting character in a telling way, and in a style that is charming as well as pungent, is one of Mary Devereux's strongest points.—Rocky Mountain News, Denver.
It is a positive treat to read such a pure, sweet story,—a genuine story of natural men and women in a seashore town in New England.—Buffalo Commercial.
By MARY DEVEREUX. Illustrated by Harry C. Edwards.
12mo. 427 pages. $1.50.
The remarkable career of Jean Lafitte during the French Revolution and the War of 1812, and the strange tie between this so-called "Pirate of the Gulf" and Napoleon Bonaparte, is the basis of this absorbing and virile story,—a novel of love and adventure written by a skilled hand.
This work is one of the most ambitious of its class, and it has in the introduction of Napoleon as Lafitte's guardian angel a picturesque feature which makes it of rather unusual interest.—Philadelphia Record.
By the Same Author
By FLORENCE BROOKS WHITEHOUSE. Illustrated by the author. 12mo. 288 pages. $1.50.
Of this novel of modern Egypt thePhiladelphia Telegraphsays: "It is a tale of fresh, invigorating, unconventional love, without the usual thrilling adventures. It is wholesome, although daring, and through its pages there vibrates a living spirit such as is only found in a few romances."
TheBoston Heraldsays: "Engages the attention of the reader from the skill shown in the handling of the subject,"—divorce.
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Frances Charles, the author of "In the Country God Forgot," writes in an entirely new vein in her latest book, the best that this talented young author has written. It is a pretty and touching story of a lonely little heiress, Roselle, who called her mother, a society favorite, "the Duchess"; and the final awakening of a mother's love for her own daughter.
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No more entertaining character has stalked through the pages of any recent novel than that of Henri de Tonti, gentleman, soldier, courtier, gallant—the Intrepid hero of countless adventures, but withal the true and constant man and lover.—Baltimore American.
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To a fine historical background, rich with incident and romance, Miss Crowley has added her own originality, her wonderful descriptive powers, in short her gift of story-telling, and has obtained a brilliant and entertaining result. The whole story is crowded with exciting events, tender love scenes, and brilliant description.—Louisville Courier-Journal.
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A romance of the sturdy, wholesome sort, in which the action is never allowed to drag.—St. Louis Globe-Democrat.
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