“You black dog,” fumed Tarleton, making a prolonged and desperate struggle to break free, “let go, or I’ll be the death of you.”
Cole grinned widely; he coolly pinned the fuming colonel to the ground by the simple process of kneeling upon his chest; his splendid white teeth flashed his entire enjoyment of the whole affair.
“Take care,” said Tom, a note of sternness now in his voice, “that this affair, here at the cabin, does not end in your own death. Let us see what damage you have done.”
The two boys who had been stationed behind the trees defending their home when Tom and Cole came up, had approached and were looking with some astonishment at the herculean black and at the wondrous ease with which he mastered the powerful king’s officer.
“Has any one been hurt?” asked Tom.
“Father has been wounded slightly,” said one of the youths. “But it’s not much, for he’s on his feet again, as you can see.”
The man who had lain upon the ground at the cabin door was limping painfully, with the aid of the woman, to a spring near at hand. The trooper whom Cole had unhorsed was attending to the wants of his wounded comrades.
“They must have surprised you,” said Tom. “How comes it that soldiers attack the homes of citizens?”
“British soldiers,” said one of the young men, bitterly, “do anything these times. They kill, burn and destroy; it does not matter much to them who their victims are so long as they refuse to take up arms for King George.”
“They are hanging and burning the homes of all who will not help them,” spoke the other youth. “If a man wants to save his life or his property he must turn traitor to his friends—he must betray his neighbor and take up arms for a false old madman who calls himself king!”