"Gentleman!" cried the other with a kind of snort, evidently designed for a laugh: "Well, I reckon, I am a sort of, as well as another. But what's the contraction? Who's talking of murdering? I'm an honest feller, Phoebe Jones, and you know it; and these here refugees are all honest fellers, too, as ever you'd wish to see. Now, Phoebe, just scratch your nose, and be quiet; for you know I won't hurt you."
"Lord!" said Phoebe, in surprise, "don't I know that voice?"
"Why, I reckon," replied the other, with a more strongly marked chuckle than before; "but, mind you, no talking above breath; for that's agin orders, and captain Gilbert's a screamer."
"Captain Gilbert!" said Phoebe, in mortal terror. "Oh Dancy Parkins, don't let him kill me, and I'll never abuse you no more!"
As he spoke, she banished so much of her fear as to fling an arm around the horseman's neck, as if to insure the protection she entreated; and the action, as well as the appeal, went so effectually to his heart, that he answered forthwith, "Well I won't,—I won't let him hurt you, I won't, consarn me!—You see, Phoebe Jones," he added, with the same giggle which had marked the manly assurance of protection, "I'm the man for you, a'ter all: I told you, you'd be coming round, some day or other, for all your saying you despised me."
"But an't I to be murdered, Dancy?" demanded the wench, dolefully: "Oh! that ever I should be among the bloody Hawks! They say, they scalp women and children, as if they were no more than great Indians!"
"They're not half such fellers as people say," replied Dancy: "the only murdering I ever knowed of among them, was that of Andy Parker; and that I uphold to be salt for gruel,—fair grist for cheating the miller. He chalked me down like a fool, me and Tom Staples, being all old friends, or sort of; and so hanging was good for him. But I tell you what, Phoebe—give us a buss, and we'll be married, as well as our betters."
"I won't do no such thing," said the damsel, stoutly. "I don't like you no better than I ever did; for I don't see you're any better-to-do in the world than you was; and, besides, I won't have no tory."
"I reckon," said Dancy Parkins, "I'm no more a tory than the lieutenant—that's him you used to suppose was Mr. Hunter, and a poor painter; and there's your betters, the Captain's daughter, jumps at him."
"She don't!" said Phoebe, with indignation; "and don't you go to say, Miss Kitty Loring will have any such vagabondy, poor fellow."