“I see,” said Nat, thoughtfully. “That is what has fixed your impression of war.” He looked at Ben steadfastly for a moment. “Tell me again: What was it he said before he left?”
“As near as I can remember,” said Ben, “he said: ‘It’s easy to call a pack of rebels together, but not always so easy to actually get them together.’”
“And you say he seemed to have a sort of—well—a look, while he said it.”
“It was a satisfaction to him. I could see that.”
“And then he bid your father not to say he was taken unawares, eh?”
“Just as he was going,” said Ben. He looked into Nat’s bronzed, thoughtful face and was surprised at its expression. “Why, you don’t think he really meant anything, do you?” he asked.
Nat shook his head.
“I don’t know. Sometimes crabbed old men delight in making meaningless threats. This may be one of them.”
He hung up his rifle upon a rack in the hall and sat down in a broad seat at the door. The beautiful suburb with its broad fields, white roads and stately houses was stretched out before him.
“Are there many Tories hereabouts?” he asked, after a space.