“I shall never render the keys to you,” said Micah Ward. “Do the work of scorn and oppression that you intend, but do not ask me to aid you.”
The yeomen, still singing, straggled up while Lord Dunseveric and Micah Ward spoke. Suddenly their song ceased, and they listened in a silence of sheer amazement while Donald Ward addressed their captain.
“Say”—his voice was cold, clear, and contemptuous—“do you call yourself a captain? And is this your notion of discipline? I guess, young fellow, if we’d had you with General Greene in Carolina we’d have combed you out and flogged the drunken ragamuffins you’re supposed to be commanding. But I reckon you’re just the meanest kind of Britisher there is, that kind that swaggers and runs away.”
“Seize that man,” said Captain Twinely. “Tie him up. Flog him. Cut the life out of him.”
Lord Dunseveric touched his horse with the spur and rode forward. “Captain Twinely, I told you I should have no flogging here. I mean to be obeyed. And you, sir, you are a stranger here. Who are you?”
“This,” said Micah Ward, laying his hand on his brother’s arm, “is my brother.”
“Captain Twinely, dismount two of your men. Let them conduct Mr. Ward and his brother back to the manse and mount guard at the door. Maurice, tie your horse to the tree yonder, and go with them. See that no incivility is used. When they are safe in the manse you can return here.”
Neal walked to the rear of the troop, and stood at the side of the road near the wall, while his father and uncle were marched away under charge of two troopers and Maurice St. Clair.
“Sergeant,” said Captain Twinely, “take four men and force this door.”
Neal heard his name called in a low voice by some one near him.