"In course it isn't for me to say what ye shall do and what ye shan't, but I don't believe a trip there will do ye any good. Ye've got to remember that other folks has suffered, too. Yer marm isn't the only one that's been shot, and yer pop isn't the only man that's been carried off by the British."
"It wasn't the British that carried my father away," said Peter quickly.
"'Twan't the British? Who was it then, I'd like to know?"
"'Twas Fenton and his band, that's who it was."
"Sho! I can't believe that! I reckon ye're mistaken, Peter. It must 'a' been the redcoats."
"It was Fenton," repeated Peter decidedly.
"I can't b'lieve it," said Barzilla, rising as he spoke. "I can't b'lieve it. However, Peter, we'll look after yer place. The women folks or I will do the chores for ye, while ye're gone. It's only neighborly, ye know, and what's friends good for if they can't help in a time like this?"
"Thank you," said Peter quietly. "There isn't much to be done, but if you'll look after what there is, I shall be glad. The children are at Benzeor's house, you know."
"So I hear. So I hear. Well, they're in good hands; ye can rest easy about that. Well, I must be a-goin'. Ye still think ye'd better go down to Refugee Town, do ye?"
"Yes."