A great fire had been built in the log fireplace, but it was
burning somewhat low now, having reached that mellow period of
least crackling and greatest heat. The huge bed of coals threw a
mass of varied and glowing colors across the floor. Large holes
had been burned in the side of the room by the original fire, but
Indian blankets had been fastened tightly over them.
In front of the fire sat Braxton Wyatt in a Loyalist uniform, a
three-cornered hat cocked proudly on his head, and a small sword
by his side. He had grown heavier, and Henry saw that the face
had increased much in coarseness and cruelty. It had also
increased in satisfaction. He was a great man now, as he saw
great men, and both face and figure radiated gratification and
pride as he lolled before the fire. At the other corner, sitting
upon the floor and also in a Loyalist uniform, was his
lieutenant, Levi Coleman, older, heavier, and with a short,
uncommonly muscular figure. His face was dark and cruel, with
small eyes set close together. A half dozen other white men and
more than a dozen Indians were in the room. All these lay upon
their blankets on the floor, because all the furniture had been
destroyed.
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