"And this thing's a Dunker church."
"You got more useless information 'n would set up a college."
"Pennsylvania fellow told me over there Dunkers are sort of Dutch Baptists."
"Oh, go get some wood!"
The captain was in the road. He walked over and leaned on the splintered fence and watched the red lights of a hundred little fires play ghostly games with black shadows in the foliage of the woods. Men were pushing about in the corn, rustling the blades. The stars were out, the young moon setting slim and lovely with the old moon on her arm. The distant crackle of rifles, belated fragments of the battle, seemed futile, isolated, mistaken and sad in the light of the drooping, withdrawing moon.
Fifty feet away was a large camp-fire of fence rails. Of the men about it, one had lean, long limbs and face, wore a long black coat and black slouched hat, and talked continuously in solemn, flowing bass. The rest listened, absorbed. Now and then one of them laughed.
The captain drew near. The lean talker unfolded his legs and rose.
"Gods! The anchorite? Gentlemen, who might this be?"
"Cap'n Windham, Company B," said some one.