“Ay, sir, of the aborigines; the daughter of a red Indian!”

“’Fore God, then, ’tis no wonder the American colonists make war upon the Indian race.  Their wives and daughters urge ’em to it, out of jealousy of the red men’s daughters.”

“Why, if they wished the red ladies exterminated, they couldn’t do better than send a number of king’s officers among ’em—­famous lady-killers, I’ve heard.”

“Madam, I know naught of that; nor of the art of lady-killing itself, which I never desired to possess until this evening.”

The captain’s eyes, so languid with melancholy or ennui a short while before, now had the glow of pre-determined conquest; his face shone with that resolve; and by this transformation, as well as by the inconsistency of his countenance with the soft tone and playful matter of his words, which inconsistency betrayed the gentleness to be assumed, I read the man through once for all:  selfish, resolute, facile, versatile, able to act any part thoroughly and in a moment, constant to his object till it was won, then quick to leave it for another; unscrupulous, usually invincible, confident of his proven powers rather than vain of fancied ones; good-natured when not crossed, and with an irresistible charm of person and manner.  And Margaret too—­there was more and other meaning in her looks than in her light, ironical speeches.

He led her through two minuets that night, and was her partner in the Virginia reel (the name the Americans give the Sir Roger de Coverly); and his was the last face we saw at our coach window as we started homeward.

“You’ve made the rest of the army quite jealous of this new captain,” growled Tom, as we rolled Southward over the stony Harlem road.  “The way Major Tarleton glared at him, would have set another man trembling.”

“Captain Falconer doesn’t tremble so easily, I fancy,” said Margaret.  “And yet he’s no marvel of a man, as I can see.”

Tom gave a sarcastic grunt.  His manifestations regarding Margaret’s behaviour were the only exception to the kind, cheerful conduct of his whole life.  A younger brother is not ordinarily so watchful of a sister’s demeanour; he has the doings of other young ladies to concern himself with.  Tom did not lack these, but he was none the less keenly sensitive upon the point of Margaret’s propriety and good name.  ’Twas the extraordinary love and pride he had centred upon her, that made him so observant and so touchy in the case.  He brooded upon her actions, worried himself with conjectures, underwent such torments as jealous lovers know, such pangs as Hamlet felt in his uncertainty regarding the integrity of his mother.

Within a week after the Morris ball, it came to pass that Captain Falconer was quartered, by regular orders, in the house of Mr. Faringfield.  Tom and I, though we only looked our thoughts, saw more than accident in this.  The officer occupied the large parlour, which he divided by curtains into two apartments, sitting-room and sleeping-chamber.  By his courtesy and vivacity, he speedily won the regard of the family, even of Mr. Faringfield and the Rev. Mr. Cornelius.