And you were there, Hans?" I asked him once.

"Ja," he said, "but I did not stay."

"You ran away?"

"Ja," Hans would answer, laughing, "run avay. I love peace, Tavid. Dot
is vy I come here, and now," bitterly, "and now ve haf var again once."

I would say nothing; but I must have looked my disapproval, for he went
on to explain that in Saxe-Gotha, where he was born, men were made to
fight whether they would or no; and they were stolen from their wives at
night by soldiers of the great king, or lured away by fair promises.

Travelling with incredible slowness, in due time we came to a county
called Orangeburg, where all were Dutchmen like Hans, and very few spoke
English. And they all thought like Hans, and loved peace, and hated
the Congress. On Sundays, as we lay over at the taverns, these would
be filled with a rollicking crowd of fiddlers and dancers, quaintly
dressed, the women bringing their children and babies. At such times
Hans would be drunk, and I would have to feed the tired horses and mount
watch over the cargo. I had many adventures, but none worth the telling
here. And at length we came to Hans's farm, in a prettily rolling
country on the Broad River. Hans's wife spoke no English at all, nor
did the brood of children running about the house. I had small fancy
for staying in such a place, and so Hans paid me two crowns for my three
weeks' service; I think, with real regret, for labor was scarce in those
parts, and though I was young, I knew how to work. And I could at least
have guided his plough in the furrow and cared for his cattle.

It was the first money I had earned in my life, and a prouder day than
many I have had since.

For the convenience of travellers passing that way, Hans kept a
tavern,--if it could have been dignified by such a name. It was in truth
merely a log house with shakedowns, and stood across the rude road from
his log farmhouse. And he gave me leave to sleep there and to work for
my board until I cared to leave. It so chanced that on the second day
after my arrival a pack-train came along, guided by a nettlesome old man
and a strong, black-haired lass of sixteen or thereabouts. The old man,
whose name was Ripley, wore a nut-brown hunting shirt trimmed with red
cotton; and he had no sooner slipped the packs from his horses than he
began to rail at Hans, who stood looking on.

"You damned Dutchmen be all Tories, and worse," he cried; "you stay here
and till your farms while o