When the fight was over, and all danger of being murdered in hot blood had passed away, Uncle Lawrence rose, surrendered himself a prisoner, and besought for a surgeon to examine his friend’s wound. The rank of Major Gordon obtained for him immediate attention. His hurt was found, however, not to be dangerous, though it would incapacitate his arm for awhile.
“All the inconvenience you will be subject to,” said the doctor, “will be the having to carry your arm in a sling. Perhaps a little fever may set in, but we can soon reduce that: I will look you up, later in the day, and give you some medicine, if necessary.”
For the present the prisoners were placed in a barn, Major Gordon being accommodated, as an officer, with a place by himself. This was a small apartment, partly shut off from the rest of the building, in which meal had been kept. A few armsful of sweet, salt hay, thrown upon the floor, rendered the accommodations a palace comparatively, at least to one who had experienced the hardships of Valley Forge. Uncle Lawrence was permitted to remain with our hero at his own request.
Here, as evening closed in, the two friends sat, conversing in low tones. Major Gordon was regretting that Uncle Lawrence had not availed himself of a chance to retreat, instead of remaining to save the speaker’s life.
“I have no family,” said the Major, “no ties on earth whatever. I have lost this post. Life is comparatively of little value to me.”
“Don’t say that, Major,” interrupted the veteran. “It’s agin religion, if not agin natur. No man knows what the Lord may have in store for him. You’ll not be long a prisoner, maybe, and you’ve friends, and warm ones, where you least suspect, perhaps.”
“No, my good, kind Herman; I will not affect to misunderstand you; I know to whom you allude; but it is not so. Your partiality has misled you. That lovely creature, whom I shall never cease to reverence, through my whole life, is too far separated from me by fortune, social position, and difference of political opinion, for me ever to hope to be honored with her love. I talk to you as to a father, you see, frankly and unreservedly. She can never be mine. It was folly in me to think otherwise, even for a moment.”
“You are low-speerited, Major,” said the honest old patriarch. “You’re worn out, body and soul, just as I’ve been sometimes after hunting all day. The loss of this post sticks in you too, I see; though a braver fight was never made than you made, and so everybody, even the tories, will say. Cheer up! It’s always darker, you know, just afore the dawn.”
“Ah!” answered the Major, “it’s less for myself than for you I am cast down. For my sake you are a prisoner. And do you know,” he said, looking earnestly at his companion, “what that means?”
In the uncertain twilight of the place, the countenance of the speakers could still be faintly discerned; yet Major Gordon saw no perceptible change in the face of the old man, as the latter replied.