“Good-bye, Sir George,” I said, offering my hand.  He took it in a firm, steady clasp.

“A safe journey, Ormond.  I trust fortune may see fit to throw us together in this coming campaign.”

I bowed, turned bridle, and cantered off, leaving him standing in the road before his gayly painted pleasure-house, an empty wine-cup in his hand.

“Damnation, George!” bawled Sir Lupus, as I rode up, “have we all day to stand nosing one another and trading gossip!  Some of us must ride by Fonda’s Bush, or Broadalbin, whatever the Scotch loons call it; and I’ll say plainly that I have no stomach for it; I want my dinner!”

“It will give me pleasure to go,” said I, “but I require a guide.”

“Peter shall ride with you,” began Sir Lupus; but Dorothy broke in, impatiently: 

“He need not.  I shall guide Mr. Ormond to Broadalbin.”

“Oh no, you won’t!” snapped the patroon; “you’ve done enough of forest-running for one day.  Peter, pilot Mr. Ormond to the Bush.”

And he galloped on ahead, followed by Cato and Peter; so that, by reason of their dust, which we did not choose to choke in, Dorothy and I slackened our pace and fell behind.

“Do you know why you are to pass by Broadalbin?” she asked, presently.

I said I did not.

“Folk at the Fish-House saw smoke on the Mayfield hills an hour since.  That is twice in three days!”

“Well,” said I, “what of that?”

“It is best that the Broadalbin settlement should hear of it.”

“Do you mean that it may have been an Indian signal?”

“It may have been.  I did not see it—­the forest cut our view.”

The westering sun, shining over the Mayfield hills, turned the dust to golden fog.  Through it Cato’s red coat glimmered, and the hunting-horn, curving up over his bent back, struck out streams of blinding sparks.  Brass buttons on the patroon’s broad coat-skirts twinkled like yellow stars, and the spurs flashed on his quarter-gaiters as he pounded along at a solid hand-gallop, hat crammed over his fat ears, pig-tail a-bristle, and the blue coat on his enormous body white with dust.

In the renewed melody of the song-birds there was a hint of approaching evening; shadows lengthened; the sunlight grew redder on the dusty road.

“The Broadalbin trail swings into the forest just ahead,” said Dorothy, pointing with her whip-stock.  “See, there where they are drawing bridle.  But I mean to ride with you, nevertheless....  And I’ll do it!”

The patroon was waiting for us when we came to the weather-beaten finger-post: 

     “Fonda’sbush
     4 miles.”

And Peter Van Horn had already ridden into the broad, soft wood-road, when Dorothy, swinging her horse past him at a gallop, cried out, “I want to go with them!  Please let me!” And was gone like a deer, tearing away down the leafy trail.