In the Valley | Page 6

looked at my
protector in pained wrath and apprehension, knowing his fiery temper.
With a swift movement he pushed his way between the sleepy soldiers
straight to the officer. I trembled in every joint, expecting to see him
cut down where he stood, here in front of his own house!

He plucked the officer's cloak down from his face with a laugh, and
then put his hands on his hips, his gun under his arm, looked the other
square in the face, and laughed again.
All this was done so quickly that the soldiers, being drowsy with their
all-night ride, scarcely understood what was going forward. The officer
himself strove to unwrap the muffled cloak that he might grasp his
sword, puffing out his cheeks with amazement and indignation
meanwhile, and staring down fiercely at Mr. Stewart. The fair-haired
boy on the horse with the negro was almost as greatly excited, and
cried out, "Kill him, some one! Strike him down!" in a stout voice. At
this some of the soldiers wheeled about, prepared to take part in the
trouble when they should comprehend it, while their horses plunged
and reared into the others.
The only cool one was Mr. Stewart, who still stood at his ease, smiling
at the red-faced, blustering officer, to whom he now said:
"When you are free of your cloak, Tony Cross, dismount and let us
embrace."
The gentleman thus addressed peered at the speaker, gave an
exclamation or two of impatience, then looked again still more closely.
All at once his face brightened, and he slapped his round, tight thigh
with a noise like the rending of an ice-gorge.
"Tom Lynch!" he shouted. "Saints' breeches! 'tis he!" and off his horse
came the officer, and into Mr. Stewart's arms, before I could catch my
breath.
It seemed that the twain were old comrades, and had been like brothers
in foreign wars, now long past. They walked affectionately, hand in
hand, to the house. The negro followed, bringing the two horses into
the stockade, and then coming inside with the bundle and the boy, the
soldiers being despatched onward to the fort.
While my aunt, Dame Kronk, busied herself in bringing bottles and
glasses, and swinging the kettle over the fire, the two gentlemen could
not keep eyes off each other, and had more to say than there were
words for. It was eleven years since they had met, and, although Mr.
Stewart had learned (from Sir William) of the other's presence in the
Valley, Major Cross had long since supposed his friend to be dead.
Conceive, then, the warmth of their greeting, the fondness of their
glances, the fervor of the reminiscences into which they straightway

launched, sitting wide-kneed by the roaring hearth, steaming glass in
hand.
The Major sat massively upright on the bench, letting his thick cloak
fall backward from his broad shoulders to the floor, for, though the heat
of the flames might well-nigh singe one's eyebrows, it would be cold
behind. I looked upon his great girth of chest, upon his strong hands,
which yet showed delicately fair when they were ungloved, and upon
his round, full-colored, amiable face with much satisfaction. I seemed
to swell with pride when he unbuckled his sword, belt and all, and
handed it to me, I being nearest, to put aside for him. It was a
ponderous, severe-looking weapon, and I bore it to the bed with awe,
asking myself how many people it was likely to have killed in its day. I
had before this handled other swords--including Sir William's--but
never such a one as this. Nor had I ever before seen a soldier who
seemed to my boyish eyes so like what a warrior should be.
It was not our habit to expend much liking upon English officers or
troopers, who were indeed quite content to go on without our friendship,
and treated us Dutch and Palatines in turn with contumacy and
roughness, as being no better than their inferiors. But no one could help
liking Major Anthony Cross--at least when they saw him under his old
friend's roof-tree, expanding with genial pleasure.
For the yellow-haired boy, who was the Major's son, I cared much less.
I believe truly that I disliked him from the very first moment out on the
frosty road, and that when I saw him shivering there with the cold, I
was not a whit sorry. This may be imagination, but it is certain that he
did not get into my favor after we came inside.
Under this Master Philip's commands the negro squatted on his
haunches and unrolled the blankets from the bundle I had seen him
carrying. Out of this bundle, to my considerable amazement, was
revealed a little child, perhaps between three and four years of age.