There is no incident of that night's ride which I recall distinctly. I merely pushed on steadily through the darkness, leaving my mount to choose his own course, confident we were headed toward the river. I was sufficiently acquainted with the valley of the Delaware, when daylight came, to decide upon the nearest ford. As to the British patrols I must run the risk of dodging these, but felt safe from such an encounter for several hours. In truth I met no one, having no occasion to even draw rein, although we passed through two small villages, and by a number of farms. I could not even determine that these houses were occupied; they were dark and silent, even the galloping hoofs of my horse failing to awaken response.
As the feeling of security took possession of me, my mind returned to her whom I had just left. As I had kissed her, as I had heard her lips repeat the words I had insisted upon her saying, it had all seemed real. But now that I was no longer looking into her eyes, I began to doubt and question. Had she assented merely to appease me, merely to compel me to leave her? She had said as much, almost denied caring for me, openly stated that there was between us an impassable barrier. At the time, in the spell of her presence, all this had meant merely a girlish spirit of coquetry; it had seemed to me her eyes denied her lips, and gave me courage. But now, alone under the stars, and riding away from her, this assurance deserted me, and I began to doubt. Why should I have hoped? We had met in ways which made intimacy inevitable, and yet the girl had spoken no word which I could presume to interpret into love. She had trusted me with her friendship, and was in no way responsible for my more serious thoughts. I could not recall one word, or act, on her part, that would give me any right to think that she cared for me, except as an acquaintance and friend. Through sympathy she might have served any fugitive with the same loyalty shown me. Surely she could not have loved me in Philadelphia, when we met for the first time, and yet, even then, she had risked everything to aid my escape. She had done no more since--all might have arisen from the same impersonal motive. But what could that motive be? A mere love of adventure, the reckless audacity of youthful spirits, a secret sympathy with the cause of the Colonies, or a desire to outwit Grant? I could not believe her purpose unworthy, that she would sink her womanhood into mere trickery. She disliked Grant, despised him as she had just cause, yet it was not to anger him that she had helped me. Somewhere there was a reason, and a valid one, for her action.