Marion laughed softly. “They are grand folks—in a tavern!” he said.
A man who has had such an escape as I had had, and whose throat aches as he thinks of the rope that he has evaded, is not at his best as an observer. If he is capable of thought at all, he is prone to think only of himself. But I had heard so much of the partisan leader, whose craft and courage had defied the energy of Tarleton, and whose name was a terror to our people from the Pine Barrier to the ocean, and from the Santee River to the Gadkin, that I could not take my eyes off Marion. His marvellous escapes, the speed of his horse which was a fable through the Carolinas, the stern discipline he maintained, and his humanity to royalists and regulars alike—these things had already made his name famous. Pursued to his haunts in the marshes of the Pee Dee, he issued from them the moment the pressure was relaxed; and while Sumter and Davy and Pickens, all leaders of note, harassed us on our borders, it was Marion who sapped the foundations of our power, cut off our detachments, and harried our friends to the very gates of Charles Town. Tarleton, whom he had evaded a dozen times, called him the Swamp Fox, and grew dull at his name. But Tarleton could bear no rival, friend or foe, and carried into war a spirit far too bitter. For most of us Marion’s exploits, troublesome as they were and rapidly growing dangerous, were a theme of generous interest and admiration.
He saw that I was observing him and probably he was not displeased. But after a moment’s pause, “Are you in pain, sir?” he asked.
“Not more than I can bear,” I replied. “Nor in any that should deter me from acknowledging the service you have rendered me.”
“I am glad it fell out so,” he replied courteously. “Here is Wilmer.”
CHAPTER V
THE SWAMP FOX
Giving the rein to the most intrepid gallantry and in battle exhibiting all the fire and impetuosity of youth, there never was an enemy, who yielded to his valor, who had not cause to admire and eulogize his subsequent humanity.—It would have been as easy to turn the sun from his course as Marion from the path of honor.
Garden.
Wilmer rode up to us a minute later, followed by two horsemen, rough wild-looking men, who wore leather caps like their leader’s. When he saw who Marion’s companion was even his aplomb was not equal to the occasion. He stared at me open-mouthed. “What diversion is this, Major?” he cried at last. “You here? What in the name of cock-fighting are you doing here?”
“I am afraid Major Craven has considerable ground for complaint,” Marion said, a note of sternness in his voice.