Sometimes, upon occasion, Tom smiled, but with a stiffness of
countenance; when he laughed, it was in a short, jerky, mechanical
manner. As for me, I was in different mood from that preceding my own
first trial of arms: I was now overcast in spirit, tremulous, full of
misgivings.
The moon did not disappoint us as we set out for the tavern. There
were but a few fleecy clouds, and these not of an opaqueness to darken
its beams when they passed across it. The snow was frozen hard in the
fields, and worn down in the road. The frost in the air bit our
nostrils, and we now and again worked our countenances into strange
grimaces, to free them from the sensation of being frozen hard.
"'Tis a beautiful night," said Tom, speaking in more composure than he
had shown during the early evening. The moonlight had a calming
effect, as the clear air had a bracing one. His eyes roamed the sky,
and then the moonlit, snow-clad earth--hillock and valley, wood and
pond, solitary house bespeaking indoor comfort, and a glimpse of the
dark river in the distance--and he added:
"What a fine world it is!"
When we entered the warm tap-room of the tavern--the house above
Kingsbridge, outside the barriers where the passes were examined and
the people searched who were allowed entrance and departure; not
Hyatt's tavern, South of the bridge--we found a number of subalterns
there, some German, some British, some half-drunk, some playing cards.
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