“You judge us harshly, Colonel Howard,” said Griffith.
“I judge you!” interrupted the old soldier, who, by this time, thought the youth resembled any one rather than his friend Hugh; “it is not my province to judge you at all; if it were!—but the time will come, the time will come. I am a patient man, and can wait the course of things; yes, yes, age cools the blood, and we learn to suppress the passions and impatience of youth: but if the ministry would issue a commission of justice for the colonies, and put the name of old George Howard in it, I am a dog, if there should be a rebel alive in twelve months. Sir,” turning sternly to Borroughcliffe, “in such a case, I could prove a Roman, and hang—hang—yes, I do think, sir, I could hang my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon!”
“Spare the Cacique such unnatural elevation before his time,” returned the captain with a grave wave of the hand: “behold,” pointing towards the wood, “there is a more befitting subject for the gallows! Mr. Griffith, yonder man calls himself your comrade?”
The eyes of Colonel Howard and Griffith followed the direction of his finger, and the latter instantly recognized the Pilot, standing in the skirts of the wood, with his arms folded, apparently surveying the condition of his friends.
“That man,” said Griffith, in confusion, and hesitating to utter even the equivocal truth that suggested itself, “that man does not belong to our ship's company.”
“And yet he has been seen in your company,” returned the incredulous Borroughcliffe; “he was the spokesman in last night's examination, Colonel Howard, and, doubtless, commands the rear-guard of the rebels.”
“You say true,” cried the veteran; “Pompey! Caesar! present! fire!”
The blacks started at the sudden orders of their master, of whom they stood in the deepest awe; and, presenting their muskets, they averted their faces, and, shutting their eyes, obeyed the bloody mandate.
“Charge!” shouted the colonel, flourishing the ancient sword with which he had armed himself, and pressing forward with all the activity that a recent fit of the gout would allow, “charge, and exterminate the dogs with the bayonet! push on, Pompey—dress, boys, dress.”
“If your friend stands this charge,” said Borroughcliffe to Griffith, with unmoved composure, “his nerves are made of iron; such a charge would break the Coldstreams; with Pompey in the ranks!”