10
THE BATTALION.
neared the inn, his distrust grew stronger, and he would
gladly have passed it by. But the jaded condition of his
horse and his own keen longing for something hot and strong
and a soft bed thereafter caused him to curse himself for a
timid fool and to thrust away from his mind the hostler’s
warning.
He rode up then boldly to the great inn at Rantowles, a huge
frame building of two stories, with a great wide piazza in
front on the lower floor, and an enormous sign hanging out
from the middle hall of the upper floor, being a bewigged
head that had done duty for Mr. Pitt before the British occu
pation, then for Lord North, and now it was supposed to
represent John Rutledge, but the paint was thin and the old
lettering showed through, and it would have been hard for a
stranger to haye decided who the worthy was.
Basmorne, the innkeeper, came out, at sound of the horse’s
footfall, to greet the coming guest. “Here, Bill !” he called
in a burly voice to a tall negro fellow who was sauntering
over from the stables, which were a little to the rear on the
left within the same enclosure as the inn. “'Hurry up there
boy, and take the gentleman’s horse. Move a little faster,
damn you! Curry him down well, then water him and feed
him, and put him in the stall next the barn.”
By this time the stranger had dismounted. Taking the
holsters from the front of the saddle and throwing them over
one arm, and using the same precaution with the saddle
bags behind the saddle and disposing of them over his other
arm, he advanced to the low steps of the inn.
“Your honor is very welcome,” said Basmorne, bowing
low, and offering to relieve him of his burdens. “Let me
have your things, your honor, and come you into supper.
Your honor must be heartily tired and also somewhat the
worst for scant garnishing of the hollow regions after so long
a ride. We have Madeira of the twenties and good Santa
Cruz and Hollands of the best, that will help to wash down
fine rope sausage, cheese of Cheshire and of Limousin, blood