Finding that
they rose very freely to the bait of a strained ironical politeness, I
used to beg them to tell off by sections, the victims of their red right
hands--chickens and ducks not being counted; also, I was fain to learn,
how many rebel standards and pieces of cannon each man had captured and
retained? If they took no credit for any such feats, I would by no means
believe them, imputing the denial solely to the modesty inseparable from
true courage.
Descending into the yard, one day, I found the sentry--an overgrown lad,
with broad, crimson, beardless cheeks--in a perfect paroxysm of
excitement, using great freedom of gesticulation and blasphemy. I had
had immense success in bewildering this particular warrior a few days
previously: so I went up to him at once:
"My blood-stained veteran," I said, "what has raised your apoplectic
valor?"
I think he was rather ashamed at being caught; but he grumbled out,
sulkily rough, something about--"If they don't keep their ---- heads in,
they'll get more than they ask for." I followed the direction of his
eyes, and there, on the third story, sat two of the quietest-looking
middle-aged women I ever beheld. They were evidently new arrivals, and
had not heard of the injunctions against putting heads out windows: for
they were staring down in blank astonishment, unconscious that the
blatant threats were leveled at them.
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