“I thank you,” said the stranger, giving his hand as frankly in return.  “Believe me, my plunge in the pond was hardly worth the stress you are kind enough to lay upon it, and but for the mischance to my little friend here,” smiling at Miss Moppet, who regarded him with affectionate eyes, “is an affair of little moment.  May I ask where you will bestow me for the night, and also the privilege of a dip in cold water, as I am too soiled and travel-worn to sit in the presence of ladies, even though your prisoner.”

“Prisoner!” echoed Betty, with a start.  “Surely, Oliver, you will not hold as a prisoner the man who saved our little Moppet’s life, and that, too (though he makes so light of it) at the risk of his own?”

“You will let him go free, brother Oliver,” cried Moppet, flying to the young officer’s side; “you surely will not clap him into jail?”

“It was my purpose,” said Oliver, looking from one to the other, “to confine you until to-morrow and then carry you to headquarters, where General Putnam will determine your ultimate fate.  I certainly recognize you as the author of this cut on my head.  Do you belong to the British army or are you a volunteer accompanying Tryon in his raid upon our innocent and unoffending neighbors at Fairfield?”

“Sir,” said the other haughtily, “I pardon much to your youthful patriotism, which looks upon us as invaders.  My name is Geoffrey Yorke, and I have the honor to bear his majesty’s commission as captain in the Sixty-fourth Regiment of Foot.”

Betty gave a faint exclamation.  Oliver Wolcott stepped forward.

“Captain Yorke,” he said, “I regret more than I can say my inability, which you yourself will recognize, to bid you go forth free and in safety.  My duty is unfortunately but too plain.  I, sir, serve the Continental Congress, and like you hold a captain’s commission.  I should be false alike to my country and my oath of allegiance did I permit you to escape; but there is one favor I can offer you; give me your parole, and allow me and my family the pleasure of holding you as a guest, not prisoner, while under our roof.”

Geoffrey Yorke hesitated; he opened his lips to speak, when some instinct made him glance at Betty, who stood directly behind her brother.  Her large, soft eyes were fixed on his with most beseeching warning, and she raised her dainty finger to her lips as she slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook her head.

“Captain Wolcott,” he said, “I fully appreciate your kindness and the motive which prompts it.  I have landed on these shores but one short month ago, and Sir Henry Clinton ordered me—­but these particulars will not interest you.  I thank you for your offer, but I decline to take parole, and prefer instead the fortunes of war.”

“Then, sir, I have no choice,” said Oliver.  “Aunt Euphemia, will you permit me to use the north chamber?  I will conduct you there, Captain Yorke, and shall see that you are well guarded for the night.”  And with a courtly bow to the ladies Geoffrey Yorke followed his captain from the room, as Moppet threw herself into Betty’s arms and sobbed bitterly.