Nothing more was said.  Our landlord went away very quietly.  An hostler, presently appearing from somewhere, passed the broken windows, and we saw our rifleman go away with him, leading the three tired horses.  We were still yawning and drowsing, stretched out in our hickory chairs, and only kept awake by the flies, when our landlord returned and set before us what food he had.  The fare was scanty enough, but we ate hungrily, and drank deeply of the fresh small beer which he fetched in a Liverpool jug.

When we two were alone again, Boyd whispered: 

“As well let them think we’re here with no other object than recruiting.  And so we are, after a fashion; but neither this state nor Pennsylvania is like to fill its quota here.  Where is your map, once more?”

I drew the coiled linen roll from the breast of my rifle shirt and spread it out.  We studied it, heads together.

“Here lies Poundridge,” nodded Boyd, placing his finger on the spot so marked.  “Roads a-plenty, too.  Well, it’s odd, Loskiel, but in this cursed, debatable land I feel more ill at ease than I have ever felt in the Iroquois country.”

“You are still thinking of our landlord’s deathly face,” I said.  “Lord!  What a very shadow of true manhood crawls about this house!”

“Aye—­ and I am mindful of every other face and countenance I have so far seen in this strange, debatable land.  All have in them something of the same expression.  And therein lies the horror of it all, Mr. Loskiel God knows we expect to see deathly faces in the North, where little children lie scalped in the ashes of our frontier—­ where they even scalp the family hound that guards the cradle.  But here in this sleepy, open countryside, with its gentle hills and fertile valleys, broad fields and neat stone walls, its winding roads and orchards, and every pretty farmhouse standing as though no war were in the land, all seems so peaceful, so secure, that the faces of the people sicken me.  And ever I am asking myself, where lies this other hell on earth, which only faces such as these could have looked upon?”

“It is sad,” I said, under my breath.  “Even when a lass smiles on us it seems to start the tears in my throat.”

“Sad!  Yes, sir, it is.  I supposed we had seen sufficient of human degradation in the North not to come here to find the same cringing expression stamped on every countenance.  I’m sick of it, I tell you.  Why, the British are doing worse than merely filling their prisons with us and scalping us with their savages!  They are slowly but surely marking our people, body and face and mind, with the cursed imprint of slavery.  They’re stamping a nation’s very features with the hopeless lineaments of serfdom.  It is the ineradicable scars of former slavery that make the New Englander whine through his nose.  We of the fighting line bear no such marks, but the peaceful people are beginning to—­ they who can do nothing except endure and suffer.”