"Let me picture for you these gentlemen whom the rebels cry out upon," she said. "Sir John Johnson is a mild, slow man, somewhat sluggish and overheavy, moderate in speech, almost cold, perhaps, yet a perfectly gallant officer."
"His father was a wise and honest gentleman before him," I said sincerely. "Is his son, Sir John, like him?"
She nodded, and went on to deal with old John Butler--nor did I stay her to confess that these Johnsons and Butlers were no strangers to me, whose blackened Broadalbin home lay a charred ruin to attest the love that old John Butler bore my family name.
And so I stood, smiling and silent, while she spoke of Walter Butler, describing him vividly, even to his amber black eyes and his pale face, and the poetic melancholy with which he clothed the hidden blood-lust that smoldered under his smooth pale skin. But there you have it--young, proud, and melancholy--and he had danced with her at Niagara, too, and--if I knew him--he had not spared her hints of that impetuous flame that burned for all pure women deep in the blackened pit of his own damned soul.
"Did you know his wife?" I asked, smiling.
"Walter Butler's--wife!" she gasped, turning on me, white as death.
There was a silence; she drew a long, deep breath; suddenly, the gayest, sweetest little laugh followed, but it was slowly that the color returned to lip and cheek.
"Is he not wedded?" I asked carelessly--the damned villain--at his Mohawk Valley tricks again!--and again she laughed, which was, no doubt, my wordless answer.
"Does he dance well, this melancholy Ranger?" I asked, smiling to see her laugh.
"Divinely, sir. I think no gentleman in New York can move a minuet with Walter Butler's grace. Oh, you New Yorkers! You think we are nothing--fit, perhaps, for a May-pole frolic with the rustic gentry! Do not deny it, Mr. Renault. Have we not heard you on the subject? Do not your officers from Philadelphia and New York come mincing and tiptoeing through Halifax and Quebec, all smiling and staring about, quizzing glasses raised? And--'Very pretty! monstrous charming! spike me, but the ladies powder here!' And, 'Is this green grass? Damme, where's the snow--and the polar bears, you know?'"
I laughed as she paused, breathlessly scornful, flushed with charming indignation.
"And is not Canada all snow?" I asked, to tease her.
"Snow! It is sweet and green and buried in flowers!" she cried.
"In winter, madam?"
"Oh! You mean to plague me, which is impertinent, because I do not know you well enough--I have not known you above half an hour. I shall tell Lady Coleville."