“How many soldiers did you meet?”
“Four, sar.”
“This won’t do, Somers. How is your arm?”
“It begins to ache. We may as well go forward as back,” said Somers, who was now suffering severely from his wound, which had not been improved by the hard gallop of the horse he rode.
“Who lives in that house?” demanded De Banyan of the negro, pointing to a splendid dwelling a short distance ahead.
“Dr. Scoville, massa.”
“Doctor?” replied the captain, glancing at Somers.
“Yes, sar; Dr. Scoville. Dat’s a mighty fine mar you rides, massa. I reckon dat’s Captain Sheffield’s mar.”
“Very likely.”
“Don’t mind me, massa; dis chile’s a Union man for shore,” grinned the negro.