Fred had involuntarily stopped short among the bushes to gaze at the prisoner, heedless of the fact that Nat and the other men were just before him, hidden by a screen of hazels.
Then the blood seemed to rush back to his breast, for a familiar voice said—
“Don’t tell me. He used to be a decent young fellow when he came over to our place in the old days; but since he turned rebel and associated with my bad brother, he’s a regular coward—a cur—good for nothing but to be beaten. See how white he turned when the captain hit him with that staff. White-livered, that’s what he is. Do you hear, sentries? White-livered!”
The men on guard uttered a low growl, but they did not say a word in their officer’s defence; and a bitter sensation of misery crept through Fred, seeming for the moment to paralyse him, and as he felt himself touched, he turned slowly to look in a despondent way at Samson, who stood close behind him, pointing toward the group as another prisoner said—
“Why, if we had our hands free, and our swords and pistols, we’d soon send these wretched rebels to the right-about. Miserable rabble, with a miserable beggar of a boy to lead them, while we—just look at the young captain! That’s the sort of man to be over a troop of soldiers.”
It was doubtful whether Scarlett heard them, as he sat there still fanning his face, till at last, in a fit of half-maddening pique, Fred turned again on Samson, and signed to him to follow.
Then, striding forward, he made his way to the sentry nearest to where Scarlett was seated.
“Why are your prisoner’s arms at liberty, sir?” he cried.
“Don’t know, sir,” said the man, surlily. “I didn’t undo them.”
Fred gazed at him fiercely, for he had never been spoken to before like this, and he grasped the fact that he was losing the confidence of those who ought to have looked up to him as one who had almost the power of life and death over them.