Van Dorn stood
blushing, pulling his long mustache of flax, and resting on his cowhide
whip.
"Dave," he called to a powerful negro, "get down from that mule; you're
too drunk to go. Jump up in his place, Owen Daw!"
The widow's son gladly vaulted on the animal.
"Sorden," continued Van Dorn, "you know all the roads: lead the way!
Whitecar, go with him! We rendezvous at Punch Hall at eight o'clock. The
order of march is in pairs, a quarter to half a mile apart. If any man
acts in anything without orders, or halloos upon the road, he may get
this lash or he may get my knife."
"Captain, where do we feed?" asked a small, wiry mulatto.
"Water at Federalsburg," answered Van Dorn; "feed at the Punch Hall."
They rode off in pairs at intervals of ten minutes; Van Dorn's vehicle
went last. A moment before he departed, Cy James touched the Captain's
sleeve and whispered, "Huldy." Turning to see if he was unobserved, Van
Dorn followed to the deep-arched chimney at the northern gable, and
dismissed his guide with a look.
"Captain Van Dorn," Hulda said, her large gray eyes strained in
tenderness and nervous courage, "do that boy Levin no harm: I love him!
God forgive all your sins, many as they are, if you disobey
grandmother's wicked commands about my darling!"
"Ha! wild-flower, you have been listening?"
"No, I have only looked: I know Aunt Patty's petting ways when she means
to ruin, and watch her black flashes of cunning between: she is no
cousin of Levin; he is Joe's gentle prisoner; his very name she made him
hide when she saw you coming this morning.
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