"I didn't say so, sir."

"You're a rum one," said he, laughing again, and he disappeared into the
house.

That day, when Breed brought me my dinner on my gallery, he did not speak
of a visitor. You may be sure I did not mention the circumstance. But
Breed always told me the outside news.

"Dey's gittin' ready fo' a big fight, Marse Dave," said he. "Mister
Moultrie in the fo't in de bay, an' Marse Gen'l Lee tryin' for to boss
him. Dey's Rebels. An' Marse Admiral Parker an' de King's reg'ments
fixin' fo' to tek de fo't, an' den Charlesto'n. Dey say Mister Moultrie
ain't got no mo' chance dan a treed 'possum."

"Why, Breed?" I asked. I had heard my father talk of England's power and
might, and Mister Moultrie seemed to me a very brave man in his little
fort.

"Why!" exclaimed the old negro. "You ain't neber read no hist'ry books.
I knows some of de gentlemen wid Mister Moultrie. Dey ain't no soldiers.
Some is fine gentlemen, to be suah, but it's jist foolishness to fight
dat fleet an' army. Marse Gen'l Lee hisself, he done sesso. I heerd
him."

"And he's on Mister Moultrie's side?" I asked.

"Sholy," said Breed. "He's de Rebel gen'l."

"Then he's a knave and a coward!" I cried with a boy's indignation.