“I mean boy,” said Fred, in his musings. “No, I do not; I mean man, for he is to blame for all this terrible war in which we are going against the king. But my father says it is just, so I have no right to think differently.”
“How far are we from Newton, Samson?” he asked his follower.
“’Bout four miles now, sir. We’ve got to turn out of the main west road, and go through the wood next. Soon be there now.”
The turning was reached at the end of another half mile, and the advance guard soon after came to the edge of the wood, through which a good road had been cut, the only drawback being that the overhanging trees made it dark.
Upon this occasion, though, the moon was rising higher and higher, pouring down a flood of silver light, which lit up the denser part with its soft diaphanous rays.
The solemn beauty of the scene, with its velvety shadows and silvery light, impressed every member of the party, so that they rode on in silence, the horses’ hoofs sounding loudly, and the night being so still that the patter of the advance guard and of those in the rear was plainly audible.
“How much more is there of this woodland, Samson?” asked Fred, after a time.
“Not much more, sir, though I can’t be sure—it’s so many years since I rode through it with your father—when I was quite a boy.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, sir. Fox, perhaps, or a deer. Everything sounds so plainly on a night like this. Hear the advance?”