Cloud lifted his hat. "Please God, those same bells will ring before I die," he said, serenely.
"They'll ring when the British fleet sights Boston," observed the Weasel.
"They'll ring loud enough for Harrod and Dan Boone to hear 'em on the Kentucky," added Mount.
I said nothing, but looked down at the powder trail, which led into the magazine through a hole under the heavy double door. Cresap pushed the heap of powder with his foot.
"Ah, well," he said, "it's liberty or death for all save human cattle—liberty or death, sure enough, as the Virginian puts it."
"Patrick Henry is in Pittsburg," began Mount; but Cresap went on without heeding him: "Patrick Henry has given my riflemen their watchword; and the day that sees them marching north will find that watchword lettered on the breast of every hunting-shirt—Liberty or Death."
Turning his clear eyes on me, he said, "You will be with us, will you not, sir?"
"My father fought at Quebec," I answered, slowly.
"And my father yonder at Fort Pitt, when it was Fort Duquesne, not under Braddock, but in '58, when the British razed the French works and built Fortress Pitt on the ruins. What of it? Your father and my father fought for England. They were Englishmen. Let us, who are Americans, imitate our fathers by fighting for America. We could do their memory no truer honour."
"I have not made up my mind to fight our King," I answered, slowly. "But I have determined to fight his deputy, Lord Dunmore."