time

was that, in the end, which convinced me. The man's right enough about that. Let two generations pass, and the threads are all tangled up again. So now we Irishmen speak English, and the English argue with themselves about Ireland. Sometimes they even listen to Irishmen. And their cousins here in America—English, Scots, Irish, all tangled together—intrude rudely into the dispute with opinions of their own, which they mostly derived from Englishmen, but didn't hesitate to impose by force of arms when needed."
* * *
Patrick Driscol took a deep breath. The quite unexpected reaction of a Virginia politician had cracked, perhaps for the first time in his life, his unyielding animosity toward gentlemen.
Well, not the first time. Another Virginian named Winfield Scott had done that. But Scott had been a general, and Driscol always gave more leeway to soldiers.
"My point is this, John. After a time, it all becomes something of a family quarrel. And now, for good or ill, and whether you asked for it or not, your Cherokees have become embroiled in it." He looked Ross up and down, then glanced at Tiana Rogers and her brothers. "And not just embroiled in the quarrel, either. You're now embroiled in the family itself."
Ross cocked his head. "Granted. Sequoyah's even talking about creating our own written script. To add to all the rest—the mills, and the separate houses, and raising livestock. Yes, slaves, too. I suppose we're adopting all the white vices, as well as the virtues. But we're still different, and we want to stay independent." He also glanced at the Rogerses; then, smiling a bit, down at his own hand. "Even if we're none too fussy about who we mate with."
Driscol snorted. "I'd say so, given the way you mate with the Scots-Irish. Pack of ruffians—and I know whereof I speak."
Driscol flushed a bit, then. He carefully avoided looking at Tiana. All the more so, because he suspected she was grinning at him.
"Those fancy stories of the ancients, Greek and