“Go,” said Steve, imperiously, and the crowd applauded.
“That’s right, send him off.” They opened a path through which the ruffian slunk, growling, away.
“Now, men, fall in.”
They fell in like soldiers, and Steve marched them off to the spot he had appointed as the place for others to join them.
The rendezvous was in a pine forest a little off the road, and only a quarter of a mile or so back of the village. Near the road the pines were thick, having sprung up since the war; but here, in a space of some hundreds of yards each way, the trees, the remnants of a former growth, were larger and less crowded, leaving the ground open and covered with a thick matting of “tags,” on which the feet fell as noiselessly as on a thick carpet, and where even the tramp of horses made hardly a sound. It was an impressive body assembled there in the darkness, silent and grim, the stillness broken only by the muffled stamping and tramping of a restless horse, by an almost inaudible murmur, or an order given in a low, quiet tone. By a sort of soldierly instinct the line had fallen into almost regimental form, and, from time to time, as new recruits came up, directed by the pickets on the roads outside, they, too, fell into order.
Just as they were about to move, a horseman galloped up, and a murmur went through the ranks.
“Dr. Cary!”
Whether it was surprise, pleasure, or regret, one at first could scarcely have told.
“Where is Captain Allen?” asked the Doctor, and pushed his way to the head of the line. A colloquy took place between him and Steve in subdued but earnest tones, the Doctor urging something, Steve replying, while the men waited, interested, but patient. The older man was evidently protesting, the other defending. At length Dr. Cary said:
“Well, let me speak a word to them.”