But the young mountaineer’s head was bent and he did not notice the newcomer until he spoke. Then the head went up swiftly; the darkness hid the scorn in Nat’s eyes, but nothing could deny that which was in his voice.
“Oh, it’s you, Prentiss, is it?”
The other laughed frankly, honestly. It was the same laugh that had caught the fancy of the cobbler at the ferry road.
“You don’t make me very welcome,” said the New England boy.
“If there is any reason why I should,” spoke Nat, “just give it a name.”
“Why,” said the other, “I can think of none. From your point of view I suppose I am a very great rascal, indeed.”
“There can be no greater crime,” said Nat, “than to turn traitor to one’s country and friends.”
“I agree with you in that,” said the other, gravely. “But,” and there was a new note in his voice, “of what does treachery consist?”
He did not give Nat an opportunity to reply, but at once proceeded.
“Two people may love their country; they may desire with all their hearts to serve it—but each may have a different idea as to how it should best be done. You, for example, think that to defy the king and parliament, to follow the leadership of Messrs. Adams, Hancock, Warren and their like, to take up arms against the lawful governor, is to serve the colonies. But I think the reverse.”