I rejoiced more than ever that I had stopped Chudleigh, and felt pride in my exploit. I hope I can be pardoned for it. It was but natural that Chudleigh’s emotions should be the opposite of mine, and I watched his face to see how he would take this talk. It was easy enough to see regret expressed there, though he sought to control himself. The talk of these recruits was very bitter against the British. The Indians with Burgoyne had committed many cruel deeds before they fled back to Canada, and these countrymen were full of the passion for revenge. I often think that if the British in London knew what atrocities their red allies have committed in their wars with us they would understand more easily why so many of us are inflamed against the Englishman. These men were rehearsing the latest murders by the Indians, and they showed very plainly their desire to arrive at the front before Burgoyne was taken. Nor did they spare the name of Englishman. I was sorry on Chudleigh’s account that the talk had taken such drift. He took note of it from the first, because his red face grew redder, and he squirmed about in the manner which shows uneasiness. “Chudleigh,” I whispered at a moment when the others were not looking, “keep still. Remember you are my prisoner.” But he sat there swelling and puffing like an angry cat. While the others were denouncing them, I made some excuses, most perfunctory, it is true, for the British; but this was only an additional incitement to a bellicose man named Hicks. He damned the British for every crime known to Satan. Chudleigh was so red in the face I thought the blood would pop out through his cheeks, and, though I shoved him warningly with my boot, he blurted out his wrath. “The English are as good as anybody, sir, and you accuse them falsely!” he said. “What is it to you?” exclaimed Hicks, turning to him in surprise and anger. “I am an Englishman, sir,” said Chudleigh with ill-judged haughtiness, “and I will not endure such abuse.” “Oh, you are an Englishman, are you, and you won’t endure abuse, won’t you?” said Hicks with irony; and then to me, “We did not understand you to say he was an Englishman.” I saw that we were in a pickle, and I thought it best to tell the whole truth in a careless way, as if the thing were but a trifle. “The man is an English officer, an escaped prisoner, whom I have retaken,” I said. “I did not deem it worth while to make long explanations, especially as we must now push on after you have so kindly fed us.” But Hicks was suspicious; so were the others, and their suspicions were fed by the mutterings and growls of Chudleigh, who showed a lack of tact remarkable even in an Englishman out of his own country. Then, to appease them, I went into some of the long explanations which I had said I wanted to avoid.