"Would you like some cheese?" said the embarrassed widow.
"Tank ye. Dis is better as rations."
Mrs. Sprowl returned to the pantry, in order to replace the provisions she had so generously given away, and prepared to depart with the basket and pail; inviting the guests repeatedly to make themselves quite at home, and to take whatever they could find.
"Wait!" said they. Each had a knee on the floor, and one hand full of bread and cheese. They looked up at her with broad, complacent, unctuous faces, smiling, yet resolute. And one, with his unoccupied hand, laid hold of the handle of the basket, while the other detained the pail. "You will tell us where is your husband," said they.
"O, dear me, I don't know! I'm a poor lone woman, and where my husband is I can't consaive, I'm shore!"
"You will tell us where is your husband," repeated the men; and one of them, getting upon his feet, stood before her at the door.
"He's on the mountain somewhars. I don't know whar, and I don't keer," cried the widow, excited. There was something in the stolid, determined looks of the brothers she did not like. "He's a bad man, Mr. Stackridge is! I'm a secessionist myself. You are welcome to everything in the house—only let me go now."
"You will not go," said the soldier at the door, "till you tell us. We come for dat."
On entering, they had placed their muskets in the corner. The speaker took them, and handed one to his comrade. And now the widow observed that out of the muzzle of each protruded the butt-end of a small cowhide. Each soldier held his gun at his side, and laying hold of the said butt-end, drew out the long taper belly and dangling lash of the whip, like a black snake by the neck.
The widow screamed.