“Aye; go down the path before me;” and Geoffrey turned toward Betty, but again the mischievous maid had been too quick for him, and he beheld her already mounted on one of the coach horses, where she sat demurely and at ease awaiting him.  Geoffrey seized the bridle and walked slowly down the bank, taking great care of his own steps lest he should by slipping cause the horse to stumble, and in a few seconds they were slowly picking their way over the rough ice.  The horse’s hoofs crunched into the snow, and Betty held her breath, and a little thrill went over her as she fancied she heard the ice crack under them.

“Oh!”—­a half-involuntary cry escaped her, and Geoffrey looked up reassuringly as he stroked the horse’s neck and checked him for a brief second.  Mrs. Seymour and the trooper were somewhat in advance and had almost reached the opposite shore.

“I—­you—­that is”—­faltered Betty, meekly dropping her eyelids—­“Oh, sir, do you really think we shall gain the Inn safely?”

“There is no cause for fear,” said Geoffrey coldly.  “I know the path;” and he plodded on in silence.  Another few rods, a slip, a half halt; but this time it was Yorke who stumbled and fell on one knee.

“Confound my sword,” he cried, recovering his feet.  “But we are nearly there.  See, Mrs. Seymour has gained the road and is riding on to the Inn.”

No reply from Betty; in truth, if he had but known it, she dared not trust her voice lest its first sound should be a sob.  And Yorke, divided between amusement and wrath at her perversity, vowed he would say no more until she grew less capricious.

The road was well trodden and the snow light as the pair pursued it in silence.  The famous hostelry known as King’s Bridge Inn was upon the highway going up the Hudson, where Spuyten Duyvil Creek ran down to Harlem River, and many a rendezvous and intrigue had been carried on within its low, wide rooms since the Colonies had declared their independence of British rule.  As Yorke approached the door, inside which Mrs. Seymour had already disappeared, a tall, dark man in riding-boots and long coat came hastily forth, and as Betty dropped the reins of her horse he was at her side.  “Oh, Gulian,” cried she, stretching out both hands, “don’t you know me?  ’Tis I, Betty Wolcott; have I outgrown your recollection?”

“Betty, indeed,” replied Gulian Verplanck, lifting her off the horse, “and right glad am I to welcome you.  What good fortune brought you in contact with Captain Yorke’s patrol?  Had I known of your near approach, I should myself have ridden forth with him, but the air was chilly and I deemed it more prudent to stop at the Inn until to-morrow.”

“Since I see you safe”—­began Geoffrey, as Betty half turned toward him.

“You do not know whom you have so kindly assisted,” broke in Verplanck; “this is Mistress Betty Wolcott, sister to my wife.  Betty, I present to you Captain Geoffrey Yorke, aide to Sir Henry Clinton, and my friend.”