“I don’t see it in the light Uncle Paul and sister do,” Charlie said. “I don’t want them to catch and torment the prisoners, or murder folks who don’t think as they do; but I _do_ want our side to succeed, and when I hear of a victory I say ‘Hurrah for the Confederacy!’ I can’t help it when I think of father, who was killed by the Yankees, and all the trouble the war has brought. I’m willing to work like a dog for the refugees and prisoners, and I’d die sooner than betray one, but if I was a man I’d join Mr. Davis’s army sure.” The pale face of the boy was flushed all over, and his dark eyes burned with Southern fire as he frankly avowed his sentiments, and Will Mather could not repress a smile at this noble specimen of a Southern rebel. “I like you, my boy, for your frankness,” he said, “and when the war is over, I shall have to send for you to come North and be cured of your treason.” “It is not _treason_,” and the boy stamped his girlish foot. “It is not treason any more than the views held by the Revolutionary soldiers. Didn’t the colonies secede from England, and does anybody call Washington a traitor now? I tell you it is _success_ which decides the nature of the thing. If we succeed, future historians will speak of us as patriots, as a persecuted people, who gave our lives in defence of our homes and firesides.” “You won’t succeed, my poor boy. The Confederacy is gasping its last breath. You will be conquered at the last, and then what have you gained?” “Nothing,—nothing but ruin!” and the tears poured over the white face of this defender of Southern rights. Soon recovering himself, however, he exclaimed, proudly: “We may be conquered, but not subjugated. You can’t do that with all your countless hordes of men, and your millions of money. The North can never subjugate the South. We may lay down our arms because we have no other alternative, but we shall still think the same, and feel the same as we do now.” Here was a curious study for Will Mather, who was surprised to find such maturity of thought and so strong determination in one so young and frail. “No wonder it is hard to conquer a people composed of such elements,” he thought, and he was about to continue the conversation when he was startled by a loud blast from a horn among the hills. “They’ve caught some one. They always do that as a kind of exultation,” the boy exclaimed, wringing his hands, and evincing as much distress as he had heretofore shown bitterness against the opposing party. It was a poor refugee from a neighboring county, whom, in spite of Paul Haverill’s precautions, they had found in a hollow tree, and whom they brought more dead than alive down to the Oak Plantation, amid vociferous cries of “Tar and feather him!” “Hang him to a sour-apple tree!” “Give him a taste of the halter!” “Make him an example to all other sneaking Yankee sympathizers!”