of the room. A saucy corporal broke out
with obscene speech and plucked at the dress of the negro girl,
imitating the affrighted child.

Again the mistress made a vain appeal:

"Do American soldiers abuse women?"

"A nigger's not a woman!" hiccoughed the corporal, and his words were
applauded by a general guffaw.

"Think of your own sisters and mothers and wives!"

"Wives! That's good! How many wives do you s'pose I've got? I wish to
hell I had a bloomin' wife like yerself. Yer man's run away, how will
I do for a substitute?"

"Shouldn't wonder," interrupted the captain, "if the damned Irish
traitor was lynched by this time."

Madam Blennerhassett looked around imploringly and supplicated:

"I am alone here with my poor children. Will no one take our part? Is
there not one man here who will defend me?"

A drawling voice responded:

"By ginger-root, there _is_ sich a man. Blast you, you forward skunks,
git out of this! Say, you woods-colt with the humps on your shoulders
and a stalk-knife by your side, help drive these hogs into the Ohio
River. They've got more devils in 'em than what's-his-name, in the
Holy Scripture, cast into all the swine of Jerusalem. Git out, I say,
you knock-kneed jackasses!"

Loquacity was Byle's riches, but he could transmute speech into
action. Instead of wasting words, he began to deliver convincing
blows. His first stroke sent the obscene corporal to the floor, minus
front teeth and consciousness. The amazed captain labored to unsheath
his sword, but Byle snatched the rusty weapon and thwacked the young
scapegrace over the pate with it. A rash rustic drew up musket and
fired; the ball grazed Plutarch's right thumb, bringing blood. This
enraged the doughty champion to the highest pitch of his fighting
compass. Rushing upon the dismayed private, he seized the offending
musket with both hands, and snapped stock from barrel by suddenly
pressing the piece against his bent knee. So impetuous and so violent
and so general was the onslaught of Plutarch, that the untried
militiamen, "flown with insolence and wine," were taken aback,
surprised and confounded. Seeing his advantage, the gaunt giant
resumed bellicose speech, like a Greek taunting the Trojans.

"Bust my buttons, bimeby I'll get mad, and hurt some of you 'fore I
know what I'm about! What the Holy Moses did you shoot my thumb for?
durn you! Don't you guess I've any feelin', you onery idiot? Needn't
be skeered, Margaret, I'll