The Bow of Orange Ribbon: A Romance of New York

“How glorious stand the valiant, sword in hand,
In front of battle for their native land!”

It was into this thundery atmosphere of coming conflict, of hopes and doubts, of sundering ties and fearful looking forward, that Richard and Katherine Hyde came, from the idyllic peace and beauty of their Norfolk house.  But there was something in it that fitted Hyde’s real disposition.  He was a natural soldier, and he had arrived at the period of life when the mere show and pomp of the profession had lost all satisfying charm.  He had found a quarrel worthy of his sword, one that had not only his deliberate approval, but his passionate sympathy.  In fact, his first blow for American independence had been struck in the duel with Lord Paget; for that quarrel, though nominally concerning Lady Suffolk, was grounded upon a dislike engendered by their antagonism regarding the government of the Colonies.

It was an exquisite April morning when they sailed up New York bay once more.  Joris had been watching for the “Western Light;” and when she came to anchor at Murray’s Wharf, his was the foremost figure on it.  He had grown a little stouter, but was still a splendid-looking man; he had grown a little older, but his tenderness for his daughter was still young and fresh and strong as ever.  He took her in his arms, murmuring, “Mijn Katrijntje, mijn Katrijntje!  Ach, mijn kind, mijn kind!”

Hyde had felt that there might be some embarrassment in his own case, perhaps some explanation or acknowledgment to make; but Joris waved aside any speech like it.  He gave Hyde both hands; he called him “mijn zoon;” he stooped, and put the little lad’s arms around his neck.  In many a kind and delicate way he made them feel that all of the past was forgotten but its sweetness.

And surely that hour Lysbet had the reward of her faithful affection.  She had always admired Hyde; and she was proud and happy to have him in her home, and to have him call her mother.  The little Joris took possession of her heart in a moment.  Her Katherine was again at her side.  She had felt the clasp of her hands; she had heard her whisper “mijn moeder” upon her lips.

They landed upon a Saturday, upon one of those delightsome days that April frequently gives to New York.  There was a fresh wind, full of the smell of the earth and the sea; an intensely blue sky, with flying battalions of white fleecy clouds across it; a glorious sunshine above everything.  And people live, and live happily, even in the shadow of war.  The stores were full of buyers and sellers.  The doors and windows of the houses were open to the spring freshness.  Lysbet had heard of their arrival, and was watching for them.  Her hair was a little whiter, her figure a little stouter; but her face was fair and rosy, and sweet as ever.

[Illustration:  Lysbet and Catherine were unpacking]

In a few hours things had fallen naturally and easily into place.  Joris and Bram and Hyde sat talking of the formation of a regiment.  Little Joris leaned on his grandfather’s shoulder listening.  Lysbet and Katherine were busy unpacking trunks full of fineries and pretty things; occasionally stopping to give instructions to Dinorah, who was preparing an extra tea, as Batavius and Joanna were coming to spend the evening.  “And to the elder and Janet Semple I have sent a message, also,” said Lysbet; “for I see not why anger should be nursed, or old friendships broken, for politics.”

Katherine had asked at once, with eager love, for Joanna; she had expected that she would be waiting to welcome her.  Lysbet smiled faintly at the supposition.  “She has a large family, then, and Batavius, and her house.  Seldom comes she here now.”

But about four o’clock, as Katherine and Hyde were dressing, Joanna and Batavius and all their family arrived.  In a moment, their presence seemed to diffuse itself through the house.  There was a sense of confusion and unrest, and the loud crying of a hungry baby determined to be attended to.  And Joanna was fulfilling this duty, when Katherine hastened to meet her.  Wifehood and motherhood had greatly altered the slim, fair girl of ten years before.  She had grown stout, and was untidy in her dress, and a worried, anxious expression was continually on her countenance.  Batavius kept an eye on the children; there were five of them beside the baby,—­fat, rosy, round-faced miniatures of himself, all having a fair share of his peculiar selfish traits, which each expressed after its individual fashion.

Hyde met his brother-in-law with a gentlemanly cordiality; and Batavius, who had told Joanna “he intended to put down a bit that insolent Englishman,” was quite taken off his guard, and, ere he was aware of his submission, was smoking amicably with him, as they discussed the proposed military organization.  Very soon Hyde asked Batavius, “If he were willing to join it?”

“When such a family a man has,” he answered, waving his hand complacently toward the six children, “he must have some prudence and consideration.  I had been well content with one child; but we must have our number, there is no remedy.  And I am a householder, and I pay my way, and do my business.  It is a fixed principle with me not to meddle with the business of other people.”

“But, sir, this is your business, and your children’s business also.”

“I think, then, that it is King George’s business.”

“It is liberty”—­

“Well, then, I have my liberty.  I have liberty to buy and to sell, to go to my own kirk, to sail the ‘Great Christopher’ when and where I will.  My house, my wife, my little children, nobody has touched.”

“Pray, sir, what of your rights? your honour?”

“Oh, indeed, then, for ideas I quarrel not!  Facts, they are different.  Every man has his own creed, and every man his own liberty, so say I.—­Come here, Alida,” and he waved his hand imperiously to a little woman of four years old, who was sulking at the window, “what’s the matter now?  You have been crying again.  I see that you have a discontented temper.  There is a spot on your petticoat also, and your cap is awry.  I fear that you will never become a neat, respectable girl—­you that ought to set a good pattern to your little sister Femmetia.”

Evidently he wished to turn the current of the conversation; but as soon as the child had been sent to her mother, Joris resumed it.

“If you go not yourself to the fight, Batavius, plenty of young men are there, longing to go, who have no arms and no clothes:  send in your place one of them.”

“It is my fixed principle not to meddle in the affairs of other people, and my principles are sacred to me.”

“Batavius, you said not long ago that the colonists were leaving the old ship, and that the first in the new boat would have the choice of oars.”

“Bram, that is the truth.  I said not that I would choose any of the oars.”

“A fair harbour we shall make, and the rewards will be great, Batavius.”

“It is not good to cry ‘herrings,’ till in the net you have them.  And to talk of rowing, the colonists must row against wind and tide; the English will row with set sail.  That is easy rowing.  Into this question I have looked well, for always I think about everything.”

“Have you read the speeches of Adams and Hancock and Quincy?  Have you heard what Colonel Washington said in the Assembly?”

“Oh, these men are discontented!  Something which they have not got, they want.  They are troublesome and conceited.  They expect the century will be called after them.  Now I, who punctually fulfil my obligations as a father and a citizen, I am contented, I never make complaints, I never want more liberty.  You may read in the Holy Scriptures that no good comes of rebellion.  Did not Absalom sit in the gate, and say to the discontented, ’See thy matters are good and right; but there is no man deputed of the king to hear thee;’ and, moreover, ’Oh, that I were made a judge in the land, that every man which hath any suit or cause might come unto me, and I would do him justice’?  And did not Sheba blow a trumpet, and say, ’We have no part in David, neither have we inheritance in the son of Jesse.  Every man to his tents, O Israel’?  Well, then, what came of such follies?  You may read in the Word of God that they ended in ruin.”

[Illustration:  He marshalled the six children in front of him]

Hyde looked with curiosity at the complacent orator.  Bram rose, and, with a long-drawn whistle, left the room.  Joris said sternly, “Enough you have spoken, Batavius.  None are so blind as those who will not see.”

“Well, then, father, I can see what is in the way of mine own business; and it is a fixed principle with me not to meddle with the business of other people.  And look here, Joanna, the night is coming, and the dew with it, and Alida had sore throat yesterday:  we had better go.  Fast in sleep the children ought to be at this hour.”  And he bustled about them, tying on caps and capes; and finally, having marshalled the six children and their two nurses in front of him he trotted off with Joanna upon his arm, fully persuaded that he had done himself great credit, and acted with uncommon wisdom.  “But it belongs to me to do that, Joanna,” he said; “among all the merchants, I am known for my great prudence.”

“I think that my father and Bram will get into trouble in this matter.”

“You took the word out of my mouth, Joanna; and I will have nothing to do with such follies, for they are waxing hand over hand like the great winds at sea, till the hurricane comes, and then the ruin.”

The next morning was the Sabbath, and it broke in a perfect splendour of sunshine.  The New World was so new and fresh, and Katherine thought she had never before seen the garden so lovely.  Joris was abroad in it very early.  He looked at the gay crocus and the pale snowdrop and the budding pansies with a singular affection.  He was going, perchance, on a long warfare.  Would he ever return to greet them in the coming springs?  If he did return, would they be there to greet him?  As he stood pensively thoughtful, Katherine called him.  He raised his eyes, and watched her approach as he had been used when she was a child, a school-girl, a lovely maiden.  But never had she been so beautiful as now.  She was dressed for church in a gown of rich brown brocade over a petticoat of paler satin, with costly ornaments of gold and rubies.  As she joined her father, Hyde joined Lysbet in the parlour; and the two stood at the window watching her.  She had clasped her hands upon his shoulder, and leaned her beautiful head against them.  “A most perfect picture,” said Hyde, and then he kissed Lysbet; and from that moment they were mother and son.

They walked to church together; and Hyde thought how beautiful the pleasant city was that sabbath morning, with its pretty houses shaded by trees just turning green, its clear air full of the grave dilating harmony of the church-bells, its quiet streets thronged with men and women—­both sexes dressed with a magnificence modern Broadway beaux and belles have nothing to compare with.  What staid, dignified men in three-cornered hats and embroidered velvet coats and long plush vests!  What buckles and wigs and lace ruffles and gold snuff-boxes!  What beautiful women in brocades and taffetas, in hoops and high heels and gauze hats!  Here and there a black-robed dominie; here and there a splendidly dressed British officer, in scarlet and white, and gold epaulettes and silver embroideries!  New York has always been a highly picturesque city, but never more so than in the restless days of A.D. 1775.

Katherine and Hyde and Bram were together; Joris and Lysbet were slowly following them.  They were none of them speaking much, nor thinking much, but all were very happy and full of content!  Suddenly the peaceful atmosphere was troubled by the startling clamour of a trumpet.  It was a note so distinct from the music of the bells, so full of terror and warning, that every one stood still.  A second blast was accompanied by the rapid beat of a horse’s hoofs; and the rider came down Broadway like one on a message of life and death, and made no pause until he had very nearly reached Maiden Lane.

At that point a tall, muscular man seized the horse by the bridle, and asked, “What news?”

“Great news! great news!  There has been a battle, a massacre at Lexington, a running fight from Concord to Boston!  Stay me not!” But, as he shook the bridle free, he threw a handbill, containing the official account of the affair at Lexington to the inquirer.

Who then thought of church, though the church-bells were ringing?  The crowd gathered around the man with the handbill, and in ominous silence listened to the tidings of the massacre at Lexington, the destruction of stores at Concord, the quick gathering of the militia from the hills and dales around Reading and Roxbury, the retreat of the British under their harassing fire, until, worn out and disorganized, they had found a refuge in Boston.  “And this is the postscript at the last moment,” added the reader:  “’Men are pouring in from all the country sides; Putnam left his plough in the furrow, and rode night and day to the ground; Heath, also, is with him.’”

Joris was white and stern in his emotion; Bram stood by the reader, with a face as bright as a bridegroom’s; Hyde’s lips were drawn tight, and his eyes were flashing with the true military flame.  “Father,” he said, “take mother and Katherine to church; Bram and I will stay here, for I can see that there is something to be done.”

“God help us!  Yes, I will go to Him first;” and, taking his wife and daughter, he passed with them out of the crowd.

Hyde turned to the reader, who stood with bent brows, and the paper in his hand.  “Well, sir, what is to be done?” he asked.

“There are five hundred stand of arms in the City Hall; there are men enough here to take them.  Let us go.”

A loud cry of assent answered him.

“My name is Richard Hyde, late of his Majesty’s Windsor Guards; but I am with you, heart and soul.”

“I am Marinus Willet.”

“Then, Mr. Willet, where first?”

[Illustration:  The City Hall]

“To the mayor’s residence.  He has the keys of the room in which the arms are kept.”

The news spread, no one knew how; but men poured out from the churches and the houses on their route, and Willet’s force was soon nearly a thousand strong.  The tumult, the tread, the animus of the gathering, was felt in that part of the city even where it could not be heard.  Joris could hardly endure the suspense, and the service did him very little good.  About two o’clock, as he was walking restlessly about the house, Bram and Hyde returned together.

“Well?” he asked.

“There were five hundred stand of arms in the City Hall, and I swear that we have taken them all.  A man called Willet led us; a hero, quick of thought, prompt and daring,—­a true soldier.”

“I know him well; a good man.”

“The keys the mayor refused to us,” said Bram.

“Oh, sir, he lied to us!  Vowed he did not have them, and sent us to the armourer in Crown Street.  The armourer vowed that he had given them to the mayor.”

“What then?”

[Illustration:  He swung a great axe]

“Oh, indeed, all fortune fitted us!  We went en masse down Broadway into Wall Street, and so to the City Hall.  Here some one, with too nice a sense of the sabbath, objected to breaking open the doors because of the day.  But with very proper spirit Willet replied, ’If we wait until to-morrow, the king’s men will not wait.  The arms will be removed.  And as for a key, here is one that will open any lock.’  As he said the words, he swung a great axe around his head; and so, with a few blows, he made us an entrance.  Indeed, I think that he is a grand fellow.”

“And you got the arms?”

“Faith, we got all we went for!  The arms were divided among the people.  There was a drum and a fife also found with them, and some one made us very excellent music to step to.  As we returned up Broadway, the congregation were just coming out of Trinity.  Upon my word, I think we frightened them a little.”

“Where were the English soldiers?”

“Indeed, they were shut up in barracks.  Some of their officers were in church, others waiting for orders from the governor or mayor.  ’Tis to be found out where the governor might be; the mayor was frightened beyond everything, and not capable of giving an order.  Had my uncle Gordon been still in command here, he had not been so patient.”

“And for you that would have been a hard case.”

“Upon my word, I would not have fought my old comrades.  I am glad, then, that they are in Quebec.  Our swords will scarce reach so far.”

“And where went you with the arms?”

“To a room in John Street.  There they were stacked, the names of the men enrolled, and a guard placed over them.  Bram is on the night patrol, by his own request.  As for me, I have the honour of assisting New York in her first act of rebellion! and, if the military superstition be a true one, ’A Sunday fight is a lucky fight.’—­And now, mother, we will have some dinner:  ‘The soldier loves his mess.’”

Every one was watching him with admiration.  Never in his uniform had he appeared so like a soldier as he did at that hour in his citizen coat and breeches of wine-coloured velvet, his black silk stockings and gold-buckled shoes.  His spirits were infectious:  Bram had already come into thorough sympathy with him, and grown almost gay in his company; Joris felt his heart beat to the joy and hope in his young comrades.  All alike had recognized that the fight was inevitable, and that it would be well done if it were soon done.

But events cannot be driven by wishes:  many things had to be settled before a movement forward could be made.  Joris had his store to let, and the stock and good-will to dispose of.  Horses and accoutrements must be bought, uniforms made; and every day this charge increased:  for, as soon as Van Heemskirk’s intention to go to the front was known, a large number of young men from the best Dutch families were eager to enlist under him.

Hyde’s time was spent as a recruiting-officer.  His old quarters, the “King’s Arms,” were of course closed to him; but there was a famous tavern on Water Street, shaded by a great horse-chestnut tree, and there the patriots were always welcome.  There, also, the news of all political events was in some mysterious way sure to be first received.  In company with Willet, Sears, and McDougall, Hyde might be seen under the chestnut-tree every day, enlisting men, or organizing the “Liberty Regiment” then raising.

From the first, his valorous temper, his singleness of purpose, his military skill in handling troops, and his fine appearance and manners, had given him influence and authority.  He soon, also, gained a wonderful power over Bram; and even the temperate wisdom and fine patience of Joris gradually kindled, until the man was at white heat all through.  Every day’s events fanned the temper of the city, although it was soon evident that the first fighting would be done in the vicinity of Boston.

For, three weeks after that memorable April Sunday, Congress, in session at Philadelphia, had recognized the men in camp there as a Continental army, the nucleus of the troops that were to be raised for the defence of the country, and had commissioned Colonel Washington as commander-in-chief to direct their operations.  Then every heart was in a state of the greatest expectation and excitement.  No one remembered at that hour that the little army was without organization or discipline, most of its officers incompetent to command, its troops altogether unused to obey, and in the field without enlistment.  Their few pieces of cannon were old and of various sizes, and scarce any one understood their service.  There was no siege-train and no ordnance stores.  There was no military chest, and nothing worthy the name of a commissariat.  Yet every one was sure that some bold stroke would be struck, and the war speedily terminated in victory and independence.

So New York was in the buoyant spirits of a young man rejoicing to run a race.  The armourers, the saddlers, and the smiths were busy day and night; weapons were in every hand, the look of apprehended triumph on every face.  In June the Van Heemskirk troops were ready to leave for Boston—­nearly six hundred young men, full of pure purpose and brave thoughts, and with all their illusions and enthusiasms undimmed.

The day before their departure, they escorted Van Heemskirk to his house.  Lysbet and Katherine saw them coming, and fell weeping on each other’s necks—­tears that were both joyful and sorrowful, the expression of mingled love and patriotism and grief.  It would have been hard to find a nobler-looking leader than Joris.  Age had but added dignity to his fine bulk.  His large, fair face was serene and confident.  And the bright young lads who followed him looked like his sons, for most of them strongly resembled him in person; and any one might have been sure, even if the roll had not shown it, that they were Van Brunts and Van Ripers and Van Rensselaers, Roosevelts, Westervelts, and Terhunes.

They had a very handsome uniform, and there had been no uncertainty or dispute about it.  Blue, with orange trimmings, carried the question without one dissenting voice.  Blue had been for centuries the colour of opposition to tyranny.  The Scotch Covenanters chose it because the Lord ordered the children of Israel to wear a ribbon of blue that they might “look upon it, and remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them; and seek not after their own heart and their own eyes, and be holy unto their God.” (Num. xv. 38.) Into their cities of refuge in Holland, the Covenanters carried their sacred colour; and the Dutch Calvinists soon blended the blue of their faith with the orange of their patriotism.  Very early in the American struggle, blue became the typical colour of freedom; and when Van Heemskirk’s men chose the blue and orange for their uniform, they selected the colours which had already been famous on many a battle-field of freedom.

Katherine and Lysbet had made the flag of the new regiment—­an orange flag, with a cluster of twelve blue stars above the word liberty.  It was Lysbet’s hands that gave it to them.  They stood in a body around the open door of the Van Heemskirk house; and the pretty old lady kissed it, and handed it with wet eyes to the colour-sergeant.  Katherine stood by Lysbet’s side.  They were both dressed as for a festival, and their faces were full of tender love and lofty enthusiasm.  To Joris and his men they represented the womanhood dear to each individual heart.  Lysbet’s white hair and white cap and pale-tinted face was “the mother’s face;” and Katherine, in her brilliant beauty, her smiles and tears, her shining silks and glancing jewels, was the lovely substitute for many a precious sister and many a darling lady-love.  But few words were said.  Lysbet and Katherine could but stand and gaze as heads were bared, and the orange folds flung to the wind, and the inspiring word liberty saluted with bright, upturned faces and a ringing shout of welcome.

Such a lovely day it was—­a perfect June day; doors and windows were wide open; a fresh wind blowing, a hundred blended scents from the garden were in the air; and there was a sunshine that warmed everything to the core.  If there were tears in the hearts of the women, they put them back with smiles and hopeful words, and praises of the gallant men who were to fight a noble fight under the banner their fingers had fashioned.

[Illustration:  Lysbet’s hands gave it to them]

It was to be the last evening at home for Joris and Bram and Hyde, and Everything was done to make it a happy memory.  The table was laid with the best silver and china; all the dainties that the three men liked best were prepared for them.  The room was gay with flowers and blue and orange ribbons, and bows of the same colours fluttered at Lysbet’s breast and on Katherine’s shoulder.  And as they went up and down the house, they were both singing,—­singing to keep love from weeping, and hope and courage from failing; Lysbet’s thin, sweet voice seeming like the shadow of Katherine’s clear, ringing tones,—­

“Oh, for the blue and the orange,
Oh, for the orange and the blue! 
Orange for men that are free men,
Blue for men that are true. 
Over the red of the tyrant,
Bloody and cruel in hue,
Fling out the banner of orange,
With pennant and border of blue. 
Orange for men that are free men,
Blue for men that are true.”

So they were singing when Joris and his sons came home.

There had been some expectation of Joanna and Batavius, but at the last moment an excuse was sent.  “The child is sick, writes Batavius; but I think, then, it is Batavius that is afraid, and not the child who is sick,” said Joris.

“To this side and to that side and to neither side, he will go; and he will miss all the good, and get all the bad of every side,” said Bram contemptuously.

“I think not so, Bram.  Batavius can sail with the wind.  All but his honour and his manhood he will save.”

“That is exactly true,” continued Hyde.  “He will grow rich upon the spoils of both parties.  Upon my word, I expect to hear him say, ’Admire my prudence.  While you have been fighting for an idea, I have been making myself some money.  It is a principle of mine to attend only to my own affairs.’”

After supper Bram went to bid a friend good-by; and as Joris and Lysbet sat in the quiet parlour, Elder Semple and his wife walked in.  The elder was sad and still.  He took the hands of Joris in his own, and looked him steadily in the face.  “Man Joris,” he said, “what’s sending you on sic a daft-like errand?”

Joris smiled, and grasped tighter his friend’s hand.  “So glad am I to see you at the last, Elder.  As in you came, I was thinking about you.  Let us part good friends and brothers.  If I come not back”—­

“Tut, tut!  You’re sure and certain to come back; and sae I’ll save the quarrel I hae wi’ you until then.  We’ll hae mair opportunities; and I’ll hae mair arguments against you, wi’ every week that passes.  Joris, you’ll no hae a single word to say for yoursel’ then.  Sae, I’ll bide my time.  I came to speak anent things, in case o’ the warst, to tell you that if any one wants to touch your wife or your bairns, a brick in your house, or a flower in your garden-plat, I’ll stand by all that’s yours, to the last shilling I hae, and nane shall harm them.  Neil and I will baith do all men may do.  Scotsmen hae lang memories for either friend or foe.  O Joris, man, if you had only had an ounce o’ common wisdom!”

“I have a friend, then!  I have you, Alexander.  Never this hour shall I regret.  If all else I lose, I have saved mijn jongen.”

The old men bent to each other; there were tears in their eyes.  Without speaking, they were aware of kindness and faithfulness and gratitude beyond the power of words.  They smoked a pipe together, and sometimes changed glances and smiles, as they looked at, or listened to, Lysbet and Janet Semple, who had renewed their long kindness in the sympathy of their patriotic hopes and fears.

Hyde and Katherine were walking in the garden, lingering in the sweet June twilight by the lilac hedge and the river-bank.  All Hyde’s business was arranged:  he was going into the fight without any anxiety beyond such as was natural to the circumstances.  While he was away, his wife and son were to remain with Lysbet.  He could desire no better home for them; their lives would be so quiet and orderly that he could almost tell what they would be doing at every hour.  And while he was in the din and danger of siege and battle, he felt that it would be restful to think of Katherine in the still, fair rooms and the sweet garden of her first home.

If he never came back, ample provision had been made for his wife and son’s welfare; but—­and he suddenly turned to Katherine, as if she had been conscious of his thoughts—­“The war will not last very long, dear heart; and when liberty is won, and the foundation for a great commonwealth laid, why then we will buy a large estate somewhere upon the banks of this beautiful river.  It will be delightful, in the midst of trees and parks, to build a grander Hyde Manor House.  Most completely we will furnish it, in all respects; and the gardens you shall make at your own will and discretion.  A hundred years after this, your descendants shall wander among the treillages and cut hedges and boxed walks, and say, ’What a sweet taste our dear great-great-grandmother had!’”

And Katharine laughed at his merry talk and forecasting, and praised his uniform, and told him how soldierly and handsome he looked in it.  And she touched his sword, and asked, “Is it the old sword, my Richard?”

“The old sword, Kate, my sweet.  With it I won my wife.  Oh, indeed, yes!  You know it was pity for my sufferings made you marry me that blessed October day, when I could not stand up beside you.  It has a fight twice worthy of its keen edge now.”  He drew it partially from its sheath, and mused a moment.  Then he slowly untwisted the ribbon and tassel of bullion at the hilt, and gave it into her hand.  “I have a better hilt-ribbon than that,” he said; “and when we go into the house, I will re-trim my sword.”

She thought little of the remark at the time, though she carefully put the tarnished tassel away among her dearest treasures; but it acquired a new meaning in the morning.  The troops were to leave very early; and soon after dawn, she heard the clatter of galloping horses and the calls of the men as they reined up at their commander’s door.  Bram, as his father’s lieutenant, was with them.  The horses of Joris and Hyde were waiting.

They rose from the breakfast-table and looked at their wives.  Lysbet gave a little sob, and laid her head a moment upon her husband’s breast.  Katherine lifted her white face and whispered, with kisses, “Beloved one, go.  Night and day I will pray for you, and long for you.  My love, my dear one!”

There was hurry and tumult, and the stress of leave-taking was lightened by it.  Katherine held her husband’s hand till they stood at the open door.  Then he looked into her face, and down at his sword, with a meaning smile.  And her eyes dilated, and a vivid blush spread over her cheeks and throat, and she drew him back a moment, and passionately kissed him again; and all her grief was lost in love and triumph.  For, wound tightly around his sword-hilt, she saw—­though it was brown and faded—­her first, fateful love-token,—­The Bow of Orange Ribbon.

[Illustration:  Tail-piece]