ed.

"Mr. David Trimble-from-the-mountains, who the devil am I?"

"I don't know, sir," and I started to go away, not wishing to disturb
him.

"Avast!" he cried. "Stand fast. See that you remember that."

"I'm not here of my free will, sir, but because my father wishes it. And
I'll betray nothing."

Then he stared at me.

"How old did you say you were?" he demanded.

"I didn't say," said I.

"And you are of Scotch descent?" said he.

"I didn't say so, sir."

"You're a rum one," said he, laughing again, and he disappeared into the
house.

That day, when Breed brought me my dinner on my gallery, he did not
speak of a visitor. You may be sure I did not mention the circumstance.
But Breed always told me the outside news.

"Dey's gittin' ready fo' a big fight, Marse Dave," said he. "Mister
Moultrie in the fo't in de bay, an' Marse Gen'l Lee tryin' for to boss
him. Dey's Rebels. An' Marse Admiral Parker an' de King's reg'ments
fixin' fo' to tek de fo't, an' den Charlesto'n. Dey say Mister Moultrie
ain't got no mo' chance dan a treed 'possum."

"Why, Breed?" I asked. I had heard my father talk of England's power and
might, and Mister Moultrie seemed to me a very brave man in his little
fort.

"Why!" exclaimed the old negro. "You ain't neber read no hist'ry books.
I knows some of de gentlemen wid Mister Moultrie. Dey ain't no soldiers.
Some is fine gentlemen, to be suah, but it's jist foolishness to fight
dat fleet an' army. Marse Gen'l Lee hisself, he done sesso. I heerd
him."

"And he's on Mister Moultrie's side?" I asked.

"Sholy," said Breed. "He's de Rebel gen'l."

"Then he's a knave and a coward!" I cried with a boy's indignation.
"Where did you hear him say that?" I demanded, incredulous of some of
Breed's talk.

"Right heah in dis house," he answered, and quickly clapped his hand to
his mouth, and showed the whites of his eyes. "You ain't agwineter tell
dat, Marse Dave?"

"Of course not," said I. And then: "I wish I could see Mister Moultrie
in his fort, and the fleet."

"Why, honey, so you kin," said Breed.

The good-natured negro dropped his work and led the way upstairs, I
following expectant, to the attic. A rickety ladder rose to a kind of
tower (cupola, I suppose it would be called), whence the bay spread out
before me like a picture, the white islands edged with the whiter lacing
of the waves. There, indeed, was the fleet, but far away, like toy ships
on the water, and the bit of a fo