“Are you not Benjamin Hays?” inquired Boyd, carelessly retying his purse.

The fellow seemed startled to hear his own name pronounced so loudly, but answered very quietly that he was.

“This house belongs to a great villain, one James Holmes, does it not?” demanded Boyd.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

“How do you come to keep an ordinary here?”

“The town authorities required an ordinary.  I took it in charge, as they desired.”

“Oh!  Where is this rascal, Holmes?”

“Gone below, sir, some time since.”

“I have heard so.  Was he not formerly Colonel of the 4th regiment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And deserted his men, eh?  And they made him Lieutenant-Colonel below, did they not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Colonel—­ of what?” snarled Boyd in disgust.

“Of the Westchester Refugee Irregulars.”

“Oh!  Well, look out for him and his refugees.  He’ll be back here one of these days, I’m thinking.”

“He has been back.”

“What did he do?”

The man said listlessly:  “It was like other visits.  They robbed, tortured, and killed.  Some they burnt with hot ashes, some they hung, cut down, and hung again when they revived.  Most of the sheep, cattle, and horses were driven off.  Last year thousands of bushels of fruit decayed in the orchards; the ripened grain lay rotting where wind and rain had laid it; no hay was cut, no grain milled.”

“Was this done by the banditti from the lower party?”

“Yes, sir; and by the leather-caps, too.  The leather-caps stood guard while the Tories plundered and killed.  It is usually that way, sir.  And our own renegades are as bad.  We in Westchester have to entertain them all.”

“But they burn no houses?”

“Not yet, sir.  They have promised to do so next time.”

“Are there no troops here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What troops?”

“Colonel Thomas’s Regiment and Sheldon’s Horse and the Minute Men.”

“Well, what the devil are they about to permit this banditti to terrify and ravage a peaceful land?” demanded Boyd.

“The country is of great extent,” said the man mildly.  “It would require many troops to cover it.  And His Excellency has very, very few.”

“Yes,” said Boyd, “that is true.  We know how it is in the North—­ with hundreds of miles to guard and but a handful of men.  And it must be that way.”  He made no effort to throw off his seriousness and nodded toward me with a forced smile.  “I am twenty-two years of age,” he said, “and Mr. Loskiel here is no older, and we fully expect that when we both are past forty we will still be fighting in this same old war.  Meanwhile,” he added laughing, “every patriot should find some lass to wed and breed the soldiers we shall require some sixteen years hence.”

The man’s smile was painful; he smiled because he thought we expected it; and I turned away disheartened, ashamed, burning with a fierce resentment against the fate that in three years had turned us into what we were—­ we Americans who had never known the lash—­ we who had never learned to fear a master.