“Methought I was in all but politics,” she replied. “I have been trained all my life to believe that courage is displayed, and honor attained by doing and suffering; but I have sadly departed from the ways of peace,” she added humbly. “I knew not before that my nature had been so corrupted by the war that my fortitude had become ferocity. Yet it must be so since I have resorted to violence and the shedding of blood. And how shall I tell my mother!”
“Have you despatches?” he asked sternly. “Where were you going when we captured you? I suppose that you realize that you are my prisoner?”
“Yes; I know, sir. I bear no despatches,” she told him meeting his eyes so frankly that he could not but believe her. “I was trying to get to my home in Philadelphia. I started three days since, but lost my way. Every one I asked for guidance gave it, correctly, I doubt not, but what with the crossroads and swamps, and being unfamiliar with the country I have gone far astray. Now I suppose that I shall never see my mother again!”
“Well, you know that you deserve some punishment for that hurt. And now what about that fellow that was with you? Why did the dastard leave you? Zounds! how can a maiden prefer any of these uncouth rascals when they exhibit such craven spirit!”
“He was doing his duty, sir,” answered Peggy, and her eyes flashed with such fire that he laughed, well pleased that he could rouse her.
“His duty, eh? And did duty call him so strongly that he could leave a girl alone to face what might be certain death? We English would call it another name.”
“Then you English would know nothing of true courage,” she retorted. “He is a patriot, and his duty must come before everything else. Thee will find, if thee has not already found, Colonel Tarleton, that these uncouth rascals, as thee terms them, are not so wanting in spirit as thy words imply.”
“No; ’fore George, they are not,” he exclaimed. “And now unravel your story to me. Your whole history, while we go on to Camden. ’Tis a goodly distance, and ’twill serve to make me forget this hurt.”
“Doth it pain thee so much?” she asked tremulously, the soft light of pity and sorrow springing again to her eyes.
“Oh, yes,” he answered grimly. “But now your story, mistress. And leave out no part of it. I wish to know of all your treasonable doings so as to make your punishment commensurable with your merits.”