“I don’t know, father,” said Bob; “I—I guess it’s just the boys a-marching.”
The voices and the words of the song grew clearer and more distinct. Now the steady tramp of marching feet could be distinguished. Then another song broke in upon the night.
“John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave;
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave;
John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave;
But his soul goes marching on.”
Loud, clear, and musical came the “Glory, glory, hallelujah!” chorus; and, indistinctly in the darkness, the figures of the marching company could be discerned, coming down the road in front of the lawn.
The expression on Rhett Bannister’s face could not be seen, but his voice was heavy with indignation as he muttered:—
“And that same John Brown was a fanatic, a fool, and a murderer, and richly deserved his fate.”
“They don’t know, father,” said Bob apologetically. “They sing it because it sounds good.”
Down by the gate there was, for a moment, an ominous silence, then, full-volumed and vigorous, a new parody on “John Brown’s Body” was hurled across the darkness toward the house of the copperhead.
“We’ll hang Rhett Ban’ster on a sour-apple tree;
We’ll hang Rhett Ban’ster on a sour-apple tree;
We’ll hang Rhett Ban’ster on a sour-apple tree;
As we go marching on.”