“Will you let me tell you, General? It was early in October that the lady I spoke of received a letter from Monsieur Lanaudiere. I think you know of him, General. He went with that lady to London, two years ago, to see Lord Germain. So now, when Lanaudiere thought Burgoyne was lost, she went away with the Indians Lanaudiere sent to bring her back to him. General, others have understood what happened to our friend here—our friend who’d have served you better except for that lady, but who tried to come back to serve you. You say ‘At last,’ General, but I think you are a man who understands a great deal without much being said. I’ve been with our poor friend, and I’ve a little mind—not a great one like yours—but I understand him, and I think it was a splendid thing he tried to do—to come back to you, even ‘at last.’ I wanted to stop him, because I thought it was certain death; but he said No. He knew the truth now, he said, and must go to his own people and fight for them; not wait another hour. So he tried to get by the pickets even before it was dark. It was a man with a broken heart who tried to come back to you, General. Most people, when their hearts break, won’t try to do anything. But he did. He tried to come back, and follow you, and fight in your cause, General Arnold.”

Arnold looked at her fixedly. “How do you get around the fact that although Nathaniel Merrill was not a prisoner, he nevertheless remained within the British lines during an entire campaign? What’s your excuse for that?”

But upon this all of us except Nathaniel had an excuse to offer, for Ellen and Nason and I burst into speech at the same time, so that the general glared at us and slapped the counterpane of his bed: then winced and pushed out his lower lip and lay staring up at the ceiling, his forehead glistening with perspiration. Ellen went quickly to his side, wiped his brow with her kerchief and stood looking down at him.

Arnold relaxed. “Very sorry, ma’am. Ah—let’s see: oh yes! What’s the excuse?”