“Hold your hands! He who strikes another stroke will have me to fight.”
The two men rose slowly and sullenly to their feet, casting looks of hate at each other. One, however, recognizing Boston, extended a hand, giving him a cheerful welcome.
“But what means this, William Barlow? How is it that I find you brawling like a boy with a stranger, when you have weighty affairs to attend to? By my faith, I did not look for this at your hands!”
The person he addressed was young, and clad in the uniform of the early Connecticut soldiery. His form was erect, and his bearing that of a soldier. He bent down his eyes, wonderful as it may seem, at the words of the peddler.
“You are right, Boston, in saying that I had no right to quarrel. But it was forced upon me against my will. Yonder man will tell you that this quarrel is none of my seeking.”
The person of whom he spoke had stood upon his guard, drawing his sword, and expecting to fight both men when they had done with their conference. He, too, had the erect bearing of the soldier, and his dress was that of captain of the soldiers at Manhattan. His face was a study. Seen in repose, it was beautiful, for a man. But now, with his anger fresh upon him, it seemed the face of a fiend. This was Joseph Van Zandt, captain in the army of the governor at New Netherlands, a brave soldier, but an unscrupulous foe.
“If it will aid you,” said he, “I do not hesitate to say that I forced this quarrel upon Lieutenant Barlow.”
“So sure as my name is Boston Bainbridge,” said that worthy, “I could give you no worse punishment than to leave you in the hands of Willie Barlow. I have not the least doubt he would give a good account of you. But, it may not be. How came this quarrel about?”
“I met him here,” said Barlow, “and he talked in a friendly tone at first; but when I gave my name he drew upon me with the utmost fury.”