The commandant mused for some moments, with his head bowed upon his hand. Van Curter was one of those obstinate men, found often among soldiers, who loved or hated with vindictive energy. His hatred of the Yankees was intense, and it offended him greatly that his daughter should fix her affections upon one of the despised race. It would have pleased him better to have seen her married to some fat burgher of New Netherlands—one of his own nation.
“Listen, sir,” said he, at last. “I have a few words to say to you. I love my child as well as any man can do. But I would sooner see her dead at my feet than married to a Yankee.”
“Now, see here, squire. Don’t talk that way. ’Tain’t proper. We are an odd kind of people; I calculate we always get even with any one who hurts us. You don’t know the lieutenant very well, I see. I do. There ain’t a finer boy from the Floridas to Penobscot. He is brave, of good family, and I really don’t see what you have against him.”
“Let that pass. I have told you what I think about this matter. He shall never again see Theresa Van Curter.”
Boston hummed a low tune.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Don’t you believe any such thing, squire. You can’t keep two young people apart. If I want to hurry on a marriage, I always get some old maid, old woman, or old man, no matter which, to oppose the match. That will bring it on, as sure as a gun!”
“You think so?”
“It stands to reason. It’s just the way of human nature. They always want to eat forbidden fruit. Your best way would be to laugh the girl out of the idea, if you are so set against it.”