"Your sword, sir!" it commanded.
"Stop," said I, sharply, coming near.
There stood my father in the lantern-light, his sword drawn, his gray hair stirring in the breeze. Before him was my old adversary, his Lordship, sword in hand. Near by, the squad of British, now surrounded, were giving up their arms. They had backed to the river's edge; I could hear it lapping their heels. His Lordship sneered, looking at the veteran who stood in a gray frock of homespun, for all the world, I fancy, like one of those old yeomen who fought with Cromwell.
"Your sword, sir," my father repeated.
"Pardon me," said the young man, with a fascinating coolness of manner, "but I shall have to trouble you—"
He hesitated, feeling his blade.
"How?" said my father.
"To fight for it," said his Lordship, quietly.
"Surrender—fool!" my father answered. "You cannot escape."
"Tut, tut!" said his Lordship. "I never heard so poor a compliment. Come in reach, and I shall make you think better of me."
