The riflemen took up their march on a brisk morning in late autumn. The night had been clear and cold, with a touch of winter in it, and the brilliant colors of the foliage had now turned to a solid brown. Whenever the wind blew, the leaves fell in showers. The sky was a fleecy blue, but over hills, valley, and forest hung a fine misty veil that is the mark of Indian summer. The land was nowhere inhabited. They saw the cabin of neither white man nor Indian. A desolation and a silence, brought by the great struggle, hung over everything. Many discerning eyes among the riflemen noted the beauty and fertility of the country, with its noble forests and rich meadows. At times they caught glimpses of the river, a clear stream sparkling under the sun.
“Makes me think o' some o' the country 'way down thar in Kentucky,” said Shif'less Sol, “an' it seems to me I like one about ez well ez t'other. Say, Henry, do you think we'll ever go back home? 'Pears to me that we're always goin' farther an' farther away.”
Henry laughed.
“It's because circumstances have taken us by the hand and led us away, Sol,” he replied.
“Then,” said the shiftless one with a resigned air, “I hope them same circumstances will take me by both hands, an' lead me gently, but strongly, back to a place whar thar is peace an' rest fur a lazy an' tired man like me.”
“I think you'll have to endure a lot, until next spring at least,” said Henry.
The shiftless one heaved a deep sigh, but his next words were wholly irrelevant.
“S'pose we'll light on that thar Seneca Castle by tomorrow night?” he asked.
“It seems to me that for a lazy and tired man you're extremely anxious for a fight,” Henry replied.
“I try to be resigned,” said Shif'less Sol. But his eyes were sparkling with the light of battle.