"It is the last of the arbutus," he said, dropping his voice to a gentle
monotone. "This is New York province, county of Tryon, sir, and yonder
bird trilling is not that gray minstrel of the Spanish orange-tree,
mocking the jays and the crimson fire-birds which sing 'Peet! peet!'
among the china-berries. Do you know the wild partridge-pea of the pine
barrens, that scatters its seeds with a faint report when the pods are
touched? There is in this land a red bud which has burst thundering into
crimson bloom, scattering seeds o' death to the eight winds. And every
seed breeds a battle, and every root drinks blood!"

He straightened in his stirrups, blue eyes ablaze, face burning under
its heavy mask of tan and dust.

"If I know a man when I see him, I know you," he said. "God save our
country, friend, upon this sweet May day."

"Amen, sir," I replied, tingling. "And God save the King the whole year
round!"

"Yes," he repeated, with a disagreeable laugh, "God save the King; he is
past all human aid now, and headed straight to hell. Friend, let us part
ere we quarrel. You will be with me or against me this day week. I knew
it was a man I addressed, and no tavern-post."

"Yet this brawl with Boston is no affair of mine," I said, troubled.
"Who touches the ancient liberties of Englishmen touches my country,
that is all I know."

"Which country, sir?"