countenance.

"Thar!" exclaimed Tom Bruce, slapping Stackpole on the shoulder, with
great glee, "thar's the man that calls himself Dannger! At him, for the
honour of Salt River; but take care of his forelegs, for, I tell you,
he's the Pennsylvany war-horse!"

"And arn't I the ramping tiger of the Rolling Fork?" cried Captain Ralph;
"and can't I eat him, hoss, dog, dirty jacket, and all? Hold me by the
tail while I devour him!"

With that, he executed two or three escapades, demivoltes curvets, and
other antics of a truly equine character, an galloping up to the amazed
Nathan, saluted him with a neigh so shrill and hostile that even White
Dobbin pricked up his ears, and betrayed other symptoms of alarm.

"Surely, Colonel," said Roland, "you will not allow that mad ruffian to
assail the poor man?"

"Oh," said Bruce, "Ralph won't hurt him; he's never vicious, except among
Injuns and horses. He's only for skearing the old feller."

"And who," said Forrester, "may the old fellow be? and why do you call
him Bloody Nathan?"

"We call him Bloody Nathan," replied the commander, "because he's the
only man in all Kentucky that _won't fight_! and thar's the way he beats
us all hollow. Lord, Captain, you'd hardly believe it, but he's nothing
more than a poor Pennsylvany Quaker; and what brought him out to
Kentucky, whar thar's nar another creatur' of his tribe, thar's no