Out in the road there was the noise of wagon-wheels going by, mingled with the talking of men. And then, above the rattle of the wheels, above the creaking and groaning of the windmill, above the howling of the wind, came the voice of one shouting:—
“Rhett Bannister—you copperhead—you’re drafted—thank God!”
That was all. The voices were again silent. The wagon passed on, the whir and wheeze of the windmill never ceased. In the darkness Bob could not see his father’s face, but he knew as well how it looked as though the sun of midday shone on it. And then, involuntarily, from his own lips came the confirmation:—
“Father, it is true.”
But Rhett Bannister did not reply. He stood there in the darkness, dimly outlined, immovable. Still the wheel went round, faster and faster in the driving wind, and the boughs of the maples, bending and springing in the gale, swept and scraped against the eaves of the work-shop. Then the doorway was darkened by another figure. Bob’s mother, peering into the gloom, called out:—
“Rhett, dear, are you there?”
“Yes, Mary.”
“Rob hasn’t come yet.”
“Yes, mother, I’m here too.”