BLACK NICK,

  THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS:

  OR,

  THE EXPIATED CRIME.

  A STORY OF BURGOYNE’S SURRENDER.

  BY FREDERICK WHITTAKER.

  NEW YORK:
  BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
  98 WILLIAM STREET.


  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
  BEADLE AND ADAMS,
  In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




BLACK NICK.




CHAPTER I.

THE WOOD FIEND.


In the midst of the lonely forest, that stretched in an almost unbroken
line of solitude from the head-waters of the Hudson to the Mississippi,
during the last century, a small party of Indian warriors, in full
war-paint, treading one in the other’s footsteps, to the number of
five, stole into a little clearing formed by the hand of Nature, and
halted by a spring.

The sun was about to set, in an angry glow of crimson, that portended
bad weather. The fiery beams shot aslant through the open arches of the
forest, and the trunks of the trees stood out, as black as jet, against
the red glow of evening.

“He has not been here,” remarked the warrior who seemed to be the
leader, as he scanned the earth around the little spring with a
practiced eye.

“The pale-faces are all liars,” said a young brave, disdainfully, as he
leant upon his bow. “When was a Mohawk known to break his word?”

“The Panther Cub is wrong,” he said, quietly. “There are good and bad
pale-faces. I have never known the white chief to fail before. He has
been stopped on the way. He will soon come, and show us how to strike
the children who have rebelled against the great father who dwells
beyond the sea.”

“The Mohawk needs no white teacher,” returned Panther Cub, in the same
tone. “I can find a house to strike, and scalps to take, long before
the morning dawns, if need be.”

“Has the Black Fox lost his eyes, that Panther Cub thinks he is the
only Mohawk that can see in the night?” asked the old chief, sternly.
“Let the young warriors be silent, while they have chiefs on the same
war-path. We have eaten of the white father’s bread, and he has
ordered us here to await his messenger. Black Fox will stay.”

As he spoke, he leaned his rifle against the tree by which he stood,
drew up his blanket around his shoulders, and took his seat in
dignified silence.

The other warriors, as if determined by his example, proceeded to make
their dispositions for the night. A flint and steel were produced,
tinder was found in a dead tree, and a small glowing fire was soon
started, around which the Indians clustered, eating their frugal meal
of dried venison and parched corn in silence.

These Indians were a small scouting party from the flankers of
Burgoyne’s army, who had been dispatched through the woods to the west
of Albany, to meet an emissary of the British Government, who was to
give them certain instructions.

Slowly the sun disappeared as they clustered round the fire, and the
crimson glow died away in the sky, to be replaced by a murky mass of
cloud of dark slaty gray, rapidly becoming black. Overhead the stars
shone out, but the clouds began to gather and hide them from view, and
a low moaning in the tops of the trees warned the hearers of a storm
brewing.

Suddenly, as if by common consent, every Indian sprung to his feet,
and grasped his weapons, as the sound of snapping sticks, and of
horse-hoofs in rapid motion, approached the spot. There was no
underbrush in those primeval forests, as yet innocent of the ax of
the woodman, and a horseman could be seen in full career, rapidly
approaching the little glade.

At a word from the chief, the four warriors resumed their seats by the
fire, while the old leader himself stalked forth from the group, and
drawing himself up, awaited the coming of the stranger, in an attitude
of dignity, grounding the butt of his rifle.

The new-comer proved to be a man of large size, with a stern,
determined face, gloomy and lowering in expression. He was dressed like
a farmer, and well mounted on a stout horse, carrying holsters on the
saddle, from which peeped the butts of large pistols. Otherwise the
rider was unarmed, only carrying a horse-whip. He checked his horse,
and dismounted before Black Fox, who addressed him with the grave
reminder:

“The Night Hawk is late.”

“I couldn’t be earlier, Fox,” returned the other, in the Mohawk tongue.
“I was fired at by Schuyler’s pickets, and chased out of my path by a
patrol of the cursed mounted rifles of that fellow, Morgan. Here I am
at last. Go back to the General, and let him know that the rebels are
rousing everywhere. Schuyler has sent orders to rescue the fort beyond
Oriskany at any cost, and they will march in two days from now, a
thousand strong, under General Herkimer, to raise the siege. Have you a
swift runner here?”

“The Panther Cub has long legs. He shall carry the Night Walker’s
words,” said the chief, sententiously.

“Good. Let him run to General St. Leger, and warn him that his rear
will be attacked,” said the spy. “For the rest, back to Burgoyne. Tell
the General his foes are gathering. He must spring like the wild-cat,
or he will be trapped like the beaver. Tell him I will bring him more
news by way of the lakes, and that--”

“HA! HA! HA! HA! I GATHER THEM IN! I GATHER THEM IN!”

The interruption was sudden and startling. A loud, harsh voice, with
an accent of indescribably triumphant mockery, shouted these words
from the midst of the intense darkness, which had crept over the scene
during the short conference, since sunset. At the same moment, out
of the opening of a hollow tree that stood near the fire, a bright,
crimson glare of flame proceeded, in the midst of which appeared an
unearthly figure of gigantic hight, but lean and attenuated as a
skeleton.

The appearance of this figure was singularly fearful, for it was
clothed in some tight black dress with steely gleams, that covered it
from head to foot, a pair of short, upright horns projecting from the
close skull-cap, and only leaving exposed a face of deathly pallor,
with great, burning black eyes, and a mustache that pointed upwards in
true diabolical fashion.

There was but a moment to examine this figure, as it stood in the
cavity, outlined against the red glow. In one hand it brandished a
single javelin, in the other a bundle of similar darts. A second later
the red glow disappeared, and the figure with it, leaving the usually
stolid Indians and their companion struck aghast with astonishment and
awe.

Then, ere a word could be spoken, the same demoniac laugh rung out, and
the gigantic apparition, with a bound, was in the midst of their little
fire, which it scattered in all directions with a single kick.

Through the thick darkness that ensued, the white man heard the noise
of a confused struggle, that seemed to endure for about half a minute.
Firm and determined as was the spy, he recoiled in ungovernable terror
to the side of his horse, and snatched from the holsters his pistols,
one of which he fired in the direction of the sounds of battle.

By the flash of the pistol he distinguished the terrible figure, in
an attitude of mad glee, brandishing its darts over the prostrate
bodies of three Indians, the fourth striving to rise, and transfixed
with a dart, while the fifth was fleeing for his life toward the spy.
Instinctively the white man climbed on his horse in the darkness, as a
wild peal of laughter greeted his shot.

He had seen the demon leaping toward him!

“HA! HA! HA!!! BLACK NICK HAS THEM FAST!” yelled the harsh voice, and
again, as if by magic, a red glow flashed over the place.

In the midst of this glare, the spy beheld the black demon clutch the
fleeing Indian with his long arms, and go leaping back toward the
hollow tree, with the writhing form of the savage close clasped. Then
there was a blinding white glare, a cloud of smoke, and a loud report,
in the midst of which the demon leaped into the hollow, and vanished
from sight sinking visibly into a pit of darkness.

With a muttered groan of terror, the now completely unnerved spy
wheeled round his frightened horse and fled, as fast as the animal
could carry him, while the forest resumed the gloom and silence of
night.




CHAPTER II.

THE AID-DE-CAMP’S DISCOVERY.


There are few sights in the world as beautiful as an American mountain
side, clothed with forest to the summit, when early frosts have begun
to touch the leaves, and wake them into color.

In the midst of the wild mountains of Vermont, in those days almost
deserted by human beings, a young man on horseback was pursuing his
way at a smart trot along a narrow road that wound round the lower
ridges, in a way that showed the ingenuity of the rustic engineers in
economizing labor.

To all appearance there was not a creature in sight, save the wild
animals and the lonely traveler, who pursued the path as if he knew it
well. Once, when he stopped to water his horse at a stream, he startled
a herd of deer who were coming to drink, and caused them to scurry away
through the bushes in alarm.

The young traveler looked around him as the deer vanished in the
thicket, with great admiration. He was in the midst of a small valley,
hemmed in by rounded mountains, and through the midst of which ran a
brown, brawling stream, in which the spotted trout played by hundreds.
The mountains were clothed to the very summit with woods, and although
it was not yet the end of August, light frosts had already been there,
in the long nights on the mountain sides. Here and there amid the green
blazed out the scarlet of a distant tree, half of whose foliage had
been touched as with a fiery pencil, while the verdure of the rest
looked fresher by contrast. Now and then the golden hue of a maple
shed a glory of color over its vicinity, but there was, as yet, only
enough of this to set off the somber green of the pines and the lighter
foliage of the oak and birch.

The traveler was a young man, and handsome withal. His dress was,
perhaps, the most picturesque in the annals of military history,
for the youth was evidently a soldier, and an officer at that. The
towering fur cap, narrowing as it rose, and ornamented with gold cord
and white plumes, the furred and braided jacket, hanging from his
shoulder, the still more gorgeous dolman that fitted his slight form to
a nicety, blazing with gold embroidery, all over the sky-blue ground of
the breast, the light buck-skin breeches, with braided pocket-covers,
and the scarlet morocco boots, rising mid-leg and tasseled with gold
were unfailing indications to the eye practiced in military costume,
that the wearer was an officer of some German corps of hussars, then at
the zenith of their reputation under the great Frederick of Prussia.
The young hussar was magnificently mounted on a dapple-gray horse of
wonderful bone and sinew, though quite low in flesh from campaigning,
and his housings were as splendid as his dress and arms. The latter,
saber, pistols, and light carbine, were all silver inlaid, and of
exquisite finish.

To a hidden observer, the sight of this gay cavalier, alone in the
wilds of Vermont, would have suggested great wonder. How came he
there, and what was he doing? In those early days of the Revolutionary
struggle, rags and bare feet were the rule, brilliant uniforms the few
exceptions. There was no corps of hussars in the Continental service,
and the Hessians, on the English side, wore green, not pale blue.
Besides, the uniform of the hussar officer was distinctively Prussian,
the black eagle being worked on his horse’s housings.

Whatever he was, he seemed to be quite at home in the woods, for his
blue eye was calm and fearless, and the long fair mustache that drooped
over his chin covered as resolute a mouth as ever closed firmly over
shut teeth.

Having allowed his beast to drink, the young cavalier urged him through
the water to the other side, and trotted briskly up the lonely road
between the arches of the wood, till he had stopped opposite the ridge,
and beheld before him another valley and more hills.

The ridge on which he stood happened to command an extensive view;
reining up, he scanned it with a practiced eye.

“By heavens!” he exclaimed to himself, in a low tone, after a long and
searching look; “there is some one living on the haunted hill, where
even the Indians would not dare to go. I must investigate that.”

So saying, he shook his rein, and galloped down the hillside, in the
direction of a mountain, the largest of any in sight, from the side of
which a thin column of smoke curled up in the air.

Nothing very strange in that it may be said; but the young officer knew
better.

He was passing through a country in which there was no settlements
in the path he was riding, till he came to Derry field. The mountain
before him was well-known by the name of “Haunted Hill” to the whites,
and had the reputation of being haunted by a demon, who frightened
away all the Indians who ventured near it. This was well known to the
young cavalier who, being free from superstition, had chosen that way
to escape any danger from the outlying Indians of Burgoyne’s army,
then lying between Ticonderoga and Albany, slowly advancing. The young
officer himself was on the staff of General Schuyler, who was then
retreating before his formidable foe, and who had sent the aid-de-camp
on a secret mission on which he was now proceeding.

The sight of smoke on the side of the Haunted Hill excited the
curiosity of the young officer. Smoke meant settled habitation.
No Indian could be there, he felt certain, on account of their
superstitious fears of the mountain demon. If any one else were there,
might he not prove to be in some way connected with the mystery of the
demon? Full of curiosity, and for the moment forgetting his mission
the young aid-de-camp crossed the valley, and commenced to toil up the
sides of Haunted Hill.

He was not aware, keen as was his glance, that one still keener was
watching him. Hardly had he gained the foot of the mountain, than an
Indian warrior looked out of the cover he had quitted, and giving a
rapid signal to some one behind, plunged down the hillside, skirting
the road and keeping the cover, followed at a loping trot by at least a
dozen more, in full war-paint.

The course of the savages was after the cavalier, and so rapidly did
they run, that they reached the foot of the hill before he had got
half-way up the side of Haunted Hill.

It is true that the hussar had slackened his pace, and was now toiling
up the steep ascent, holding by the mane of his steed. The Indians,
on the other hand, pressed along at the same rapid, tireless lope, and
quickly came in sight of the aid-de-camp, whose steps they seemed to be
dogging with true savage pertinacity.

Once having him safe in sight, the warriors slackened their pace, and
contented themselves with following, step by step, gliding from tree to
tree, and keeping themselves carefully hidden.

Meanwhile, the young officer pursued his way up the hill in the
direction that promised to bring him close to the mysterious smoke
which had excited his curiosity.

In half an hour’s climbing he had reached the summit of the lower ridge
of Haunted Hill, and beheld before him a little basin, scooped by the
hand of nature in the side of the hill, about a hundred yards across,
bare of wood, in the center of which stood a low stone hut, thatched
with fir branches, from the summit of which curled the blue smoke that
he had first noticed.

The little basin was bounded on one side by a precipice of rock about
fifty feet in hight, crowned with trees, and surmounted by the steep
ascent of the upper mountain. At the right it ended abruptly in a
second precipice, which fell away into the valley, while the tops of
lofty trees below just showed themselves over the edge. The forest
bounded the other side, and a little spring trickled over the edge of
the lower precipice with a tinkling sound.

But what riveted the attention of the youth, was a group that he
discovered in the midst of the little valley standing in front of the
cabin door.

Several tame deer were crowding eagerly around a young girl, in a
quaint, picturesque dress, in strange proximity to a huge black bear
and three tall bloodhounds of the largest breed.

The officer reined in his horse in amazement as he looked, and
ejaculated aloud:

“Heavens! It is Diana herself.”




CHAPTER III.

THE ROCK NYMPH.


The sight of the horseman in that lonely place excited a strange
commotion. Hardly had the young officer uttered his involuntary
exclamation, when the three hounds set up a loud baying, and came
leaping toward him, the black bear waddled after them, while the timid
fawns bounded away into the forest in great alarm.

The girl herself, who seemed to be the mistress of this menagerie,
turned toward the stranger with the port of the goddess to whom he
had compared her. In truth, she resembled nothing so much as a living
statue of Diana, for she wore the same short tunic and buskins, and
carried the bow and quiver of the patroness of hunting. Her figure and
face, with the simple antique knot in which her hair was arranged,
confirmed the likeness; and when she hastily fitted an arrow to the
bow she carried, it seemed to the young soldier as if he had indeed
insulted the privacy of some supernatural being.

Most men in his position would have either turned to flee or made some
motion of defense. Not so the hussar.

He remained sitting on his horse, in spite of the menacing appearance
of the bloodhounds, without moving a muscle; and the dogs, as soon as
they closed in, justified his course, by ceasing to bay, while they
ran inquisitively round, snuffing at the horse’s legs, now and then
uttering a low growl, but offering no actual violence. The black bear
likewise became peaceable, halting at a little distance and sitting up
on its haunches, surveying the intruder with a comical air of wisdom.

The girl who had been disturbed, observing the passive attitude of the
hussar, hesitated a moment, and finally advanced toward him, with the
same haughty and insulted aspect however.

As she came closer, and her eyes ran over the face and equipments of
the intruder, the severity of her glance insensibly relaxed. It was
not in female nature to look cross at such a dashing young cavalier.
He on his part, surveyed her with increasing admiration, as he beheld
her purely Grecian face with its frame of golden hair, lighted by great
solemn blue eyes.

The girl was the first to speak, in a tone of displeasure.

“Do you know where you are, sir?” she asked. “What made you venture
where all men shun to go?”

“Fairest Diana,” began the hussar, half wondering if he were not
dreaming.

The girl interrupted him with an expression of surprise.

“How? You know my name?”

“How could I mistake it?” said the hussar, with great adroitness. “The
beauty of Diana is famous the world over, and I am the humblest of her
worshipers.”

The girl looked at him in amazement. She could not see that the
accomplished man of the world was but taking advantage of a lucky
accident, to feel his way into her confidence, by a mingling of truth
and falsehood in his manner.

“Then who are you that knows me so well?” she asked, artlessly. “I
never thought human creature would come nigh our cottage, and you say
it is famous.”

“For my name,” said the hussar, smiling, “you may call me Captain
Schuyler, if you will. If you would like a shorter name and a
pleasanter one, call me Adrian.”

“Adrian is a pretty name,” said the girl, smiling with the frank,
fearless innocence that distinguished her every action. “Adrian and
Diana are both beautiful.”

“Diana is beautiful,” said the hussar, meaningly; “how beautiful no one
knows but me.”

Diana looked up at him inquiringly. Then something seemed to inform her
of his meaning, for she flushed hotly and drew herself up with sudden
haughtiness, asking:

“What brought you here? Do you not know that it is death to intrude on
this mountain? Even the wild Indian shuns it.”

“I have heard that a demon haunts it,” said the hussar, boldly; “but I
never dreamed that it wore such a shape as yours.”

At the bold words of the intruder Diana turned pale, and looked
apprehensively around her, saying in low tones:

“Do not mention him, foolish Adrian. He will seize you and plunge you
into a fiery pit if he hears you. Away, while you have time, or you may
repent it. Any moment he may be here.”

“In that case I should like to see him,” said Schuyler, coolly. “I
don’t believe in demons, Diana. Your demon is a man, and I am curious
to see him. I rode over here expressly to do that.”

“You rode over here to dare the mountain demon?” asked the girl, in a
faint tone, as if wonder-stricken. “Man, are you mad? I tell you he has
killed every creature that has passed this way for years, and he will
kill you, if he finds you.”

The captain of hussars laughed carelessly, and threw up the flap of
one of his holsters, from whence he produced a long pistol of elegant
finish, and double-barreled.

“That, for his demoniac majesty,” he said, holding up the weapon, “and
let him beware how he crosses my path. I have--”

He was interrupted by a suspicious growl from one of the hounds,
who had been couched on the grass in seeming contentment since the
conference had become peaceful.

The animal rose to its feet and stalked to the edge of the glade,
followed by its three companions, snuffing and growling.

A moment later an arrow came from the cover of the mountain-side,
grazed the neck of the foremost hound, and whizzed past the hussar,
sticking harmlessly in a tree.

The three hounds set up a simultaneous savage bay and dashed headlong
into the cover, from whence, a moment later, rose the appalling
war-whoop of the Mohawk, as a dozen warriors sprung out, and rushed
towards Schuyler and Diana.

In a moment a fierce contest had commenced, the gallant hounds each
pinning an Indian by the throat, while the bear rushed into the fight
with a savage growl. Adrian Schuyler shot down a savage with his
pistol, and wounded a second, then drew his saber, and instinctively
looked around for the mysterious girl, Diana.

She had vanished, as if the earth had swallowed her up!

He was too much confused by the sudden attack to think of where
she had gone. Already two of the hounds were ripped up by Indian
scalping-knives, and the third was transfixed with an arrow.

As he turned toward the Indians, his horse plunging and rearing, the
flashes of several rifles were followed by a sharp stinging sensation
in his side, and two warriors seized his bridle, while a third rushed
at him, tomahawk in hand.

But the hussar was not the man to yield to a surprise. His keen saber
played round his head like a flash of light, and in a trice he had
cut down one assailant, while the other let go the bridle to escape a
second blow.

With a shout of triumph he dashed in his spurs, and the gray charger
took him clear of his enemies with a bound. Then, lying down on his
saddle to escape the bullets, away went Captain Adrian Schuyler, late
of the Zieten Hussars of Prussia, at full speed, through the clearing,
passing the stone hut, which seemed to be quite deserted, and darting
into the forest beyond.

Arrows and bullets whistled past him as he went, but he was untouched,
save by the first graze which he had lately felt. He heard the Indians
whooping behind him, and doubted not that they were pursuing, but he
felt secure on his swift steed, and his only anxiety seemed to be as to
the safety of the strange girl who called herself Diana.

Where she had gone, and whether the Indians had seen her, was an
enigma to him as he fled away, but he had no time to lose. The young
aid-de-camp was even then on an important mission, and his detour to
the Haunted Mountain had cost him valuable time.

Fully resolved to return with sufficient force to investigate the
mystery at some future time, the officer galloped on through the woods
till he regained once more the road to Derryfield, and pursued his
journey at a gallop.




CHAPTER IV.

THE YOUNG CAPTAIN’S CAPTURE.


The sun was within about an hour of setting behind the western ridges
of the Green Mountains, as a tall, heavily-built man, with strong,
sullen face, sat at the door of a log cabin, within a few miles of the
settlement of Derryfield, looking across a lonely valley.

The attire of this individual was that of a farmer, and a little patch,
of about half an acre, behind his cabin, showed by its ripening corn,
that his occupation was not wholly a fiction. Still, a certain air of
neglect about cabin and owner, and the presence of a long rifle that
lay across his knees, announced that his farming was at least eked out
by hunting, if not subordinated thereto.

Although only a few miles from a settlement, the scene around the
seated man was completely wild and lonely, so much so that the people
had christened the owner the “Mountain Hermit.” His solitary habits and
sullen manner repelled strangers from forming his acquaintance, and
even his name was unknown to any one in the country side.

He had first made his appearance there about three years before, had
built his own cabin in that solitary place, and resided there ever
since. The only occasions he was ever seen away, were when some hunter
caught sight of him in the woods on the same errand as himself, and
it remained a mystery where he procured powder and lead, for he never
entered Derryfield to buy any.

Since the advance of Burgoyne’s army, people ceased to watch him.
It was well known that hordes of Indians were prowling about in the
vicinity of every settlement, and no one dared to venture away alone.
Still, the Mountain Hermit remained in his cabin, as if insensible to
danger, although “Indian sign” had been seen more than once near his
little clearing.

On the evening in question he sat gazing at the sunset and
soliloquizing, according to the habit of most lonely men.

“Let them come,” he muttered. “They cannot do as much harm to the
Puritanical hounds as I wish them. Let them scalp the women if they
please. There will be so many rebel brats the less, to grow up into
boors. Let them abuse me. I can stand the name of renegade, if I get my
revenge. Let us see their Washington, that they boast so much of, help
them out of this scrape.”

As he spoke, his frown grew dark and gloomy, and he rose to his feet.
His manner was fretful and impatient.

“Why don’t the fools come?” he muttered. “When there is no danger, who
so bold as an Indian? Let them once get a good scare, and you cannot
drive them into battle. It is beyond the chief’s time--no--there he
comes. After all, the brutes keep faith.”

At the moment he uttered the last words, the stately form of an Indian
chief stepped into the clearing, as if he had issued from the ground,
and calmly advanced toward the recluse.

The new-comer was a Mohawk on the war-path, from his paint and other
peculiarities. He carried a short rifle over his arm, and saluted the
hermit with grave courtesy.

The white man opened the conversation with an air of authority to which
the Indian submitted quietly.

“Bearskin is ready? Where are his warriors?”

The chief waved his hand toward the exit of the valley.

“My brothers are in wait by the white road that leads to the town. They
await the Night Hawk’s orders.”

“Good. It is new moon. When the moon sinks, I will be there. Let them
stop every one that passes by the road; but no firing. Let the arrow do
its work silently. Is the town well watched all round?”

“Not a creature will escape. My warriors are like the web of the
spider, the white men are like the flies. We shall suck their blood
before morning, and the squaws will be tired of counting the scalps.”

“It is good,” said the Mountain Hermit, with a grim smile. “Let
Bearskin watch well. Has any one come along the road to-day?”

The Indian answered not for a moment. His quick ear had caught a sound
to which the other was insensible, and he stood with his head bent on
one side listening intently.

“One comes now,” said the white man, quickly. “Do not kill him on the
road, or the sight may deter others. Drag him into the forest, and keep
him till I come.”

The Indian nodded silently, and plunged into the forest in a direction
that promised to take him toward the road that crossed the foot of the
valley almost within sight of the clearing.

The recluse remained a moment listening, and presently caught the
sounds which the quicker senses of the chief had first announced. A
horseman was evidently galloping along the road toward him, and the
clatter of spur and scabbard told the nature of the traveler without
words.

The recluse cast his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and struck
across the valley to a point where he could intersect the road in its
many curves at a much nearer point. He was a little curious to see who
the advancing dragoon might be.

There was still plenty of light, although the sun was fast nearing the
mountain tops, and the long strides of the Mountain Hermit took him
across the stretch of woods that barred him from the road in a very
short time.

As he neared it, the sound of horse-hoofs and the clatter of a
saber-scabbard were plainly audible, skirting the mountain-side beyond.

At the point which the recluse had reached, the road came round a spur,
over the dividing ridge, and dived into the valley beyond. Waiting a
few moments, till the sound of hoofs was close by, the Mountain Hermit
stalked boldly into the road, just as the young hussar captain dashed
around the corner.

At the sight of the stranger’s figure, Adrian Schuyler abruptly halted,
throwing his horse on its haunches close to the other, while the sharp
click of his pistol-lock enforced the stern command, “Halt!”

The stranger quietly turned, and faced the hussar with a sullen frown,
asking:

“Who are you to halt a peaceable farmer? I’ve as much right as you, and
more, in this place.”

“Perhaps so,” said the hussar, coolly: “but in war-time we of the
light cavalry take liberties that we support with our weapons. Who are
you?”

“A peaceable farmer, as I said before,” answered the other, with a
sullen scowl. “Who are you?”

“An officer on duty, my man, who doesn’t care to be trifled with. There
are too many Indians and spies loose in these mountains for me to trust
strangers. If you’re a peaceable farmer, you’re as sulky a looking one
as I have seen. How far is it to Derryfield?”

“Four miles,” said the sullen stranger, gruffly. Then he turned away as
if the colloquy was terminated, but the hussar was not going to let him
off so easy.

“Halt!” he again cried, in his sharp tones, covering the other with his
pistol. “Move another step, and it’s your last.”

The stranger obeyed the order with his usual sullen air, but the
hussar’s voice showed that he was in earnest.

“Look here, Mr. Officer,” began the stranger, in a tone of injury, “I
don’t see what you have against me to treat me in this way. Let me
alone, or by the Lord, we’ll see if my rifle ain’t as good as your
pistol.”

The hussar was close to him, as he spoke, and he was already beginning
to handle his long rifle, when Adrian’s horse, obedient to his master’s
will, made a sudden leap, which brought the soldier’s left hand to the
shoulder of the recluse.

In a moment the muzzle of the pistol was at the sullen stranger’s ear,
as Adrian sternly ordered him:

“Fire in the air, quick, or _I_ fire here. Not a word. Fire!”

The sullen man cast one savage look up at the hussar’s face, but the
menace he met there was so unyielding that he obeyed the order.

The harmless rifle-bullet whistled skywards, and the sharp report waked
the echoes for miles around, as the now disarmed man stood glaring
defiantly up at the hussar.

“Now drop your gun,” said Adrian, sternly.

The stranger obeyed, still with the same scowl.

“It’s my impression,” pursued the officer, grimly, “that you’re a
spy of some sort, or you’d have treated a patriot officer with more
courtesy. Unbuckle your belt, and drop it. I see you have a knife
still. No fooling, sir. I shall be fully justified in shooting you if
you hesitate.”

The stranger, without a word, did as he was told, still looking up
at the hussar with the same defiant scowl as ever. The soldier,
still keeping his strange captive under his eye, dived into the gay
saber-tasche that dangled beside his sword, and produced therefrom a
pair of delicate steel handcuffs.

“Hold up your hands,” he said, quietly, “I’m going to take you into
Derryfield, dead or alive.”

Still the stranger spoke not a word. His face wore the same expression
of bitter rage, without a trace of fear, though he stood there disarmed
and helpless. He held up his hands, and allowed Schuyler to handcuff
him, without a struggle. Then, as the officer passed a cord between his
manacled wrists, and fastened it to his saddle-bow, he uttered a short
laugh of bitter mockery.

The captain did not deign to notice it.

“Go on,” he said, spurring up his horse, “and run your best, or you’ll
find yourself dragged.”

He set off at a slow trot, the prisoner running alongside, with
surprising power, and took the road to Derryfield.




CHAPTER V.

TURNING THE TABLES.


Captain Adrian Schuyler pursued his way toward Derryfield, pistol in
hand, keeping a vigilant watch over his prisoner. The altercation on
the road had detained him so long that the sun had kissed the mountain
tops ere he had crossed the valley, and a dark shadow had crept over
the landscape.

The hussar felt uneasy, he hardly knew why, but the defiant manner
of his prisoner had roused strange misgivings in his breast. Still,
nothing occurred to disturb him on his passage through the valley,
and as he crossed the ridge on the other side, he came in sight of the
village of Derryfield, nestling in the wide valley, through which ran a
large tributary of the Connecticut, while the glimmer of lights stole
through the gathering darkness.

“Thank Heaven, in sight at last!” ejaculated the officer, as he
involuntarily pulled up to gaze at the scene. The outlines of houses
could be distinguished in the twilight, but as some three miles still
intervened, every thing was misty and uncertain. The hussar chirruped
to his horse, and was about to ride on, when the hitherto silent
prisoner suddenly woke into terrible life and activity.

Seizing the soldier by the belt with his manacled hands with the
strength of a giant, he endeavored to drag him down from the saddle,
uttering a shout as he did so.

The hussar, though slight of frame, seemed to possess considerable
nerve and activity, for he resisted the effort with great adroitness,
by throwing himself to the further side of the saddle, while he
instinctively leveled his pistol and fired.

The grim recluse uttered a savage cry of pain as the bullet plowed his
shoulder, and grappled the slender soldier with such power that he lost
a stirrup, let go his bridle and tried to push away his assailant with
his left hand, while he cocked the other barrel of his pistol with his
right.

How the struggle might have terminated is uncertain, but just as the
soldier was almost out of the saddle, and bringing his pistol to bear,
a score of dark forms sprung from the roadside, and Adrian Schuyler was
seized by strong hands, the pistol going off in the struggle.

A moment later he was a prisoner, while the charger, freed from his
burden, and snorting with terror, gave a series of flying kicks at
the crowd of Indians, broke loose from all restraint, snapping the
cord which bound him to the unknown spy, and galloped away toward
Derryfield, neighing as he went.

“Hell’s furies, give him an arrow!” cried the spy, savagely. “Stop the
brute, or he’ll alarm the town! Fools, have ye no bows?”

The answer was given in a shower of arrows after the flying steed,
which only seemed to increased its speed, for it soon vanished in the
gathering darkness, leaving its master a captive.

The reflections of Adrian Schuyler were by no means pleasant at finding
himself in the power of his quondam prisoner. Too late he recognized
the trap into which he had fallen, and that he had made a bitter and
remorseless enemy.

The spy, for such he evidently was, seemed to be the leader of the
Indians; he issued his orders as peremptorily as a chief, and was
implicitly obeyed.

He did not deign to take any notice of the hussar himself, but in a few
moments the latter found himself stripped of all his weapons, while the
handcuffs were transferred from the wrists of the recluse to his own,
and he was hurried off into the darkening woods.

The white leader remained on the spot where the fracas had occurred,
gazing angrily toward Derryfield, scowling and muttering to himself.

“Curse the popinjay hussar! why did I let him stop me, when a bullet
would have kept his brute from giving the alarm? It is too late now.
Another goodly scheme thwarted by one of those cursed accidents that
none can foresee! We must retire. One comfort, I have _him_, and
I’ll take satisfaction out of his pretty face, when I see the flames
distorting it. Ay, ay, there you go, in the toll-gate. I thought the
brute would rouse ye.”

As he spoke, several moving lights appeared in the distance, on the
way to Derryfield, and the sound of distant shouts, mingled with the
hoof-beats of the flying charger. The new moon shed a faint light over
the landscape, and the spy turned away into the woods on the track of
the Indians, who had already vanished.

Adrian Schuyler, manacled and guarded, stumbled on through the
darkness, not knowing whither he was going. He judged that his escort
was numerous, from the constant rustle of leaves, and the sound of low
signals that echoed through the woods.

He did not know that those signals were the recall of a numerous band
of Indians, who, but for his accidental presence and the escape of his
horse would, ere this, have been closing around Derryfield, for a
midnight massacre, as well planned as it was atrocious.

Like the tiger, the Indian attacks only by surprise, and, that foiled,
is apt to slink away. Adrian Schuyler knew that a body of troops was
already gathered at Derryfield, militia, perhaps, but none the less the
victors of Lexington and Breed’s Hill. In a midnight surprise these men
would have fallen an easy prey to the waiting Indians, but their leader
knew too well that the flying horse with its bloody saddle would tell a
tale to the commander at Derryfield that the latter was not likely to
pass unheeded.

For several hours the weary march through the woods was continued,
the Indians in sullen silence urging on their weary captive, till the
latter was ready to drop. He had been riding rapidly for at least ten
hours before, and was tired when he dismounted, and his high-heeled
boots were not the style of foot-gear to wind a way among rocks and
roots.

At last, when the moon had been down for several hours, and the poor
hussar was nearly exhausted, the whistle of a whippowil, echoing
through the arches of the wood, brought the party guarding Schuyler to
a halt, and the sound of horse-hoofs announced that some one approached.

Presently up rode the quondam farmer and Mountain Hermit, now revealed
in his true character as a partisan leader, and followed by several
men in green uniforms, wearing the brass and bear-skin helmets of a
well-known Tory corps, called after their leader the “Johnson Greens”
or “Rangers.”

The spy was dressed as before in homespun clothes, but he rode a stout
horse, and wore a sword, while he seemed to be in authority over white
and red alike.

He issued a few brief orders, after which he dismounted from his horse,
and the rangers and Indians proceeded to encamp.

It was not long before a fierce fire was glowing under the arches of
the woods, the heat being very grateful to the frame of the captive
hussar, for the night was chilly, and he was wet and shivering, from
wading so many brooks.

He had sunk down at the foot of a tree, quite tired out, when a ranger
stirred him up with the butt end of his rifle, and ordered him, in a
surly tone, to “get up, the captain wanted to see him.”

Schuyler obeyed the ungracious order with patience, for he knew
the hands he had fallen into, and did not wish to provoke further
indignities. He followed the soldier to where his late enemy lay under
a tree, with his feet to the fire, gloomily meditating.

The partisan looked up, and a grim smile lighted his face.

“So, my young hussar, the tables are turned, it seems. It takes an old
warrior to keep Tony Butler in irons. Now, hand out your dispatches,
unless you prefer to be searched. Which shall it be?”

The young officer smiled disdainfully.

“My dispatches are in my brain,” he said. “All I carry in writing is
this.”

And he drew a paper from his bosom and handed it to the captain of
rangers.




CHAPTER VI.

A DEMONIACAL VISIT.


Captain Butler, for such was the name by which the partisan seemed to
be known, took the parchment extended by the prisoner, and examined it
closely.

“Why, this is only a commission,” he growled. “What do I care for that?
I want your dispatches, Captain Schuyler, since that seems to be your
name.”

“I have none, on my word as an officer,” said Schuyler calmly.

“Then what were you doing on the road to Derryfield?” asked Butler,
bending his shaggy brows on the other.

“On duty,” was the laconic reply.

“What kind of duty?”

“That is my own affair and my General’s.”

“Who is your General?”

“General Philip Schuyler.”

“So,” said the ranger leader, musingly. “Are you a relation of his?”

“His second cousin.”

“On his staff?”

“As an aide--yes.”

“What uniform is that you wear? I know none such among the rebel
ragamuffins.”

“It is the uniform of the Zieten regiment of hussars, in the Prussian
service.”

Butler looked at the other with more respect. At that time, the name
of Frederic of Prussia was as famous as that of Napoleon, twenty-five
years later, and the Tories, while despising the “rebels,” held a great
reverence for the few foreign officers who had found their way into the
American service.

“Have you, indeed, served in the Zieten Hussars?” be asked.

“Seven years,” said young Schuyler, proudly.

“You must have been a boy when you entered.”

“I was--a cadet.”

“And what brought you back here to link your fortunes with these
rebels, sir?”

“My country. She was in danger, and I owed her my life.”

“What orders did you carry to Derryfield?”

The hussar smiled slightly, and remained silent.

Butler looked at him with a gloomy but hesitating manner. He did not
seem so much incensed against the hussar since he had discovered the
famous corps to which he belonged.

“Look here, captain,” he said, suddenly, altering his manner to one of
complete cordiality, “there can be no use in hiding the truth from me.
I have no ill-feeling against you for treating me so roughly. It was
war-time, and a hussar should always be on the alert. But why should
an officer of your experience take a side which must be the losing one
in this struggle, when a commission in the king’s service awaits you,
if you wish? Already General Burgoyne has your cousin enveloped in the
toils, at Albany, and another week will see the rebels cut in half,
from the lakes to New York. I know why you went to Derryfield. It was
to try and rouse the Vermont militia. But it is of no use, I assure
you. Who is in command there, by the by?”

Schuyler again smiled, but made no answer.

The partisan leader frowned in a vexed manner at that.

“Captain Schuyler,” he said, in a low, grating voice, “remember there
are Indians round you. For the last time, what was your errand?”

“For the last time, Captain Butler, I will not tell you.”

Butler changed his manner to its old repulsive sullenness.

“Very well. Your blood on your own head.”

He spoke a few words in the Mohawk tongue, and Schuyler was seized and
bound hand and foot in an incredibly short space of time, then cast
down at the foot of a tree, and left between two guards, to sleep if he
could.

The last words of the partisan had led him to anticipate immediate
torture, at least, but such did not seem to be the intention of his
captors. He was left to himself, in a position far from uncomfortable
as regarded warmth, with a tree overhead and a fire near him, while his
bonds, though secure, were by no means painful.

Meanwhile, the few simple preparations of the Indians for camping out
had been completed, and the whole band lay stretched around the fire,
with their feet in close proximity. The leader had wrapped himself
in a cloak and lain down a little apart, and every thing was quiet,
as Adrian Schuyler softly raised his head to look for his chances of
escape. He counted his enemies, and found that there were only thirteen
Indians and six soldiers present, including Butler. Where the other
bands had gone, he could not tell, but none were there.

Young Schuyler had not served under the best light cavalry Generals
of Europe without acquiring much fertility of resource and boldness
of character. To be left alone was, with him, to plan some means of
escape, and as he lay there, he considered that in the morning his
chances would probably be desperate.

He lay quite still for some time, till he heard the deep breathing of
sleepers on all sides. Then he rolled over to one side, nearer one of
his guards, the knife at whose belt excited his hopes.

The instant he moved, a deep voice accosted him from behind a
neighboring tree, saying, in English:

“Roll back!”

The hussar obeyed, and his heart sunk as he did so. He was evidently
watched by a hidden sentry.

A moment later the man moved out from the tree against which he had
been leaning, a stalwart ranger of the “Johnson Greens.”

Without another word, he grounded his rifle-butt, and stood leaning on
the muzzle, looking at Schuyler with grave attention. From that moment
the young officer saw it was useless to move till that gaze was off him.

Resigning himself to his fate, he pretended to go to sleep, and
insensibly the warmth and silence lulled him into a doze, from which
he woke with a sudden start, after a lapse of time that he could not
compute exactly.

When he looked round, the fire was burning low, and all was in gloom.
The sentry had left his post, but Schuyler could distinguish the dark
outline of his form leaning against a tree. Silently as he could, the
hussar rolled over once more toward his nearest guard, and this time
there was no warning from the sentry. With his head bowed on his hands,
which were clasped on the muzzle of his rifle, the latter was sleeping
and snoring audibly.

The prisoner raised his manacled hands to withdraw the knife from the
sleeping Indian’s belt, and was already in the act of touching him,
when a sudden interruption occurred to the quiet--an interruption of
the most awful character.

A bright glare of red light shot over the scene from above, and the
astonished hussar beheld, in the midst of the branches of the tree over
his head, a blazing ball of crimson fire.

On a lower branch, stood a gigantic black figure, which Schuyler
recognized, with an indescribable sensation of awe and superstition
which he could not conquer, as the very embodiment of the traditional
idea of the Genius of Evil himself.

The gaunt, gigantic figure, with short, upright horns on its head,
black from head to foot, with steely gleams; the deathly white face,
with great burning eyes and pointed mustache, curved upwards in a
malicious grin of triumph; all were the usual and traditional aspects
of the fiend in art.

For one moment the horrible demon stood erect on a branch, holding
another above his head, while he brandished a bundle of darts in his
left hand.

Not a soul in camp was awake but Schuyler, who fancied himself for a
moment the victim of nightmare, so inexplicable was the vision to his
senses.

Then there echoed a triumphant laugh from the tree, and a deep, hoarse
voice roared out:

“HA! HA! HA! HA!!! I GATHER THEM IN! I GATHER THEM IN!”

Even at the second word, every man in camp started up, and stood gazing
spellbound at the fearful figure.

Then, with a final yell of fiendish laughter, the demon leaped down
on the head of an Indian, and cast a shower of his darts in all
directions. Every one went with fearful force and unerring aim straight
to the heart of a victim, and four men fell writhing to the earth in as
many seconds.

Then, with a low wail of inexpressible terror, white and red, without
venturing a blow or shot for defense, flew in wild dismay in all
directions.

As for Schuyler, he was too much astounded to move. His bonds also
prevented him, had he been so inclined. He lay mutely gazing up at the
extraordinary apparition as it stood over the fire dealing death around
it, expecting his own death to follow.

Suddenly, almost in the instant that his captors fled, there was a loud
explosion in the top of the tree, and the red glare vanished to be
replaced by a profound darkness, in the midst of which the wild laugh
of the specter sounded fearfully distinct, while the rapid rush of feet
through the leaves told of the flight of every one else.

Adrian Schuyler lay perfectly still. He was not naturally
superstitious, but the strange events he had witnessed were enough
to rouse the fears of the bravest. He remained where he had fallen,
listening to the receding feet, after which all was silent.

How long he lay there he could not tell. The stillness of death hung
over the forest for hours, but he feared to move, least he might
attract the notice of the strange creature. Where it had gone to, he
did not know, but he fancied it must be near, from having heard nothing
of its departure.

Thus the hussar lay on his back by the glimmering embers, till the
doubtful light of dawn stole over the scene, and revealed the empty
forest to his view, with a heap of corpses lying by an extinguished
fire.

The demon had vanished.




CHAPTER VII.

A STRANGE SERVICE.


Adrian Schuyler sat up, with some difficulty, owing to his bonds, and
looked around him. There lay the dead bodies, five in number, and every
one was that of an Indian. Strange to say, not a white man had fallen.
Each body was lying flat on its back, with a ghastly gash right over
the heart, that stretched across the whole length of the rib, leaving a
gaping red pit in the side.

The javelins with which death had been inflicted had vanished, and the
footprints of some creature with _a cloven foot_ were plainly visible
by the side of the corpses.

The light of day, instead of dispelling the mystery, only served to
render it deeper. The hussar could not tell where he was, for the thick
woods, but he noticed that the ground rose to the right of the camp,
with a steepness that told he was at the foot of a mountain.

Now, unwatched by human eye, he rolled himself near the body of an
Indian, and using the latter’s knife with his own fettered hands, soon
cut the cords that bound his feet together. His own handcuffs remained,
but they were not an incumbrance to his further escape. Moreover, it
was not hard to find weapons. They lay by the bodies, or scattered in
terror over the ground, and a heap of abandoned horse equipments,
at the foot of a tree, showed where the demoralized rangers had fled
on barebacked horses. Lying among these equipments he found his own
weapons as they had been thrown there, and it was with great joy that
he resumed them, one by one.

Putting on a sword-belt, when the person is handcuffed, is by no means
an easy operation, but Adrian managed it somehow, and then took his
departure for the mountain, presenting the strange spectacle of a fully
armed hussar roaming the woods, handcuffed like a prisoner.

The irons were decidedly inconvenient, but he had no means to unlock
them. The key in his saber-tasche had been taken by his captors of the
evening to extricate their chief, and the latter had fled, carrying it
with him.

In a short time the young officer had reached the ascent which he
judged to be the side of a mountain, and beheld his expectations
verified. A lofty mountain indeed was before him, and a break in the
woods, higher up, promised him a prospect of the surroundings.

After some minutes of hard climbing he reached a flat rock that jutted
out many feet from the mountain-side, and around which the trees had
gradually thinned away, leaving a view of the usual sea of mountains
and valleys.

Something in the scene seemed familiar to the hussar, who yet could not
exactly ascertain where he was. Casting his eyes to the right, over a
sea of foliage, he caught sight of a thin wreath of blue smoke curling
in the air, and at the same time, beheld a peculiar shaped cliff,
with a stream falling over its side, which he instantly recognized,
ejaculating:

“_By heavens, it is the Haunted Hill!_”

It was indeed, but the other side from that which he had seen the day
before.

“The mystery is solved,” mused the hussar. “No wonder the Indians
fled. It must have been the Mountain Demon that saved me last night.
But, surely, it can not be possible that demon’s really in it. There
was none here yesterday, and the savages must have grown bold from its
absence. Who can it be, then?”

As he thus mused, the clear silvery notes of a horn echoed from the
rocks overhead on the mountain-side, and soon after came the flying
feet of some creature rapidly approaching.

Instinctively, Adrian Schuyler drew one of his pistols and cocked it,
ready to defend himself against any attack.

The next moment one of the large bloodhounds he had seen the day
before, dashed over the rock at some distance, without noticing him,
and then came the graceful figure of the girl Diana, who bounded past
him within ten feet, and suddenly stopped, dumb with amazement, staring
at the handsome stranger.

Adrian was the first to break the silence.

“Fairest Diana,” he said, in his most winning tones, “well met once
more on the mountain.”

“How came you here, rash man?” asked the girl, hastily, and turning
pale as she spoke. “Do you not know that this is fatal ground? Are you
tired of your life? If _he_ finds you here, he will kill you.”

Schuyler smiled.

“As to why I came here, it is easily answered. I was brought here a
prisoner, by a party of Indians and Tories, who camped with me in the
woods at the foot of the hill. Last night a strange apparition entered
our camp, killed or frightened away all the Indians, and released me. I
am trying now to find my way back to Derryfield.”

Diana listened to his words with apparent wonder.

“A strange apparition! What! is he here again?”

“I know not to whom you refer, lady, but a creature in the likeness of
a man, but with cloven feet and horns, created such a panic among my
captors as I never saw paralleled.”

“And still you dare stay here,” said the girl, in a tone of wonder.
“Oh, sir, if you value your life, let me entreat you to fly. The road
to Derryfield is straight and easy.”

“And yet _you_ stay here,” said the hussar, meaningly. “Why should I
fear what you do not?”

“Oh, sir, that is different. I am--I can not tell you what. But I
entreat you to fly.”

“Madam,” said Schuyler, gravely, “I should be glad to do so, for my
duty calls me away. But I have no horse, and the woods are full of
enemies. If I go on foot, the chances are that I never get there.”

“What then? You can not stay here--you say you saw _him_--what is to be
done? You must go back whence you came.”

“I can not do it,” said Schuyler. “The scouts of Burgoyne’s army are
between me and home. I _must_ get to Derryfield, if I have to steal a
horse.”

Diana wrung her hands in agony.

“Man, man, I tell you he will kill you if you stay here. You _must_ go
away.”

“I have a choice of deaths, then,” said the hussar, coolly. “I am safe
from the Indians, on this mountain, and as for the demon, if he kills
me, he will serve his enemies. On my mission to Derryfield depends the
whole future of a campaign.”

As he spoke, the sound of another horn, deep, hoarse and bellowing,
echoed from the top of the hill, and the girl turned deadly pale,
ejaculating:

“It is too late! He is here! You are lost!”

In spite of his general courage and coolness, an involuntary thrill
of terror gathered over the heart of Adrian Schuyler, as he listened
to the mysterious sounds of the phantom horn. It echoed from hill to
hill in deep reverberations, and when it died away, left him with an
indescribable sense of awe.

At the same moment, as if the mysterious demon had waited to sound
his horn till the aspects of nature were in harmony with diabolical
influences, a sudden shadow swept over the sun, and Adrian, looking
up, beheld a deep thundercloud, hitherto hidden behind the mountains,
swallow up the sun, and rush across the sky with wonderful swiftness,
while a powerful gust of wind shook and bowed the trees on the
mountain-side in a groaning chorus.

He turned to Diana, and behold, she was gone! He just caught a glimpse
of her white deer-skin tunic vanishing in the upper woods on the
mountain-side, whence the sound of the horn had come, and he realized
that it had been a summons.

“Man or demon--girl or spirit,” muttered Schuyler, as he entered the
woods in pursuit, “I’ll follow you, and find the mystery of this
mountain, if it costs me my life. I’ll _know_ the secret, at least.”

He ran through the forest in swift pursuit of the vanishing girl, but
quickly realized that she was far swifter than he, for he soon lost
sight of her entirely, and came to a standstill.

Not for long, however.

The storm that was already brewing became more threatening every
moment, the clouds thicker and thicker, and a few drops began to patter
on the leaves overhead. Remembering the direction of the mountain
clearing, the hussar directed his course thereto, and pushed steadily
through the woods toward it.

He had not far to go to reach it, and ten minutes brought him there,
but the storm had already set in, with rattle and crash of thunder, and
intense gloom, only broken by the vivid flashes of the lightning.

As he looked into the clearing, a gray sheet of rain came driving down
over every thing, shutting out mountain and valley from sight, and
threatening to drench him to the skin.

Schuyler was a bold, decided young fellow, as we have seen, and he
hesitated not to run across the clearing, and dash headlong into the
hut, where he found the door as open as on his former visit, and every
thing silent.

Looking round, as soon as he had shaken himself clear of water, he
found himself in a circular room of rough stones, without plastering of
any sort, with a conical roof, supported by a central post of hemlock
with the bark on. At one side of the apartment was a huge fireplace, in
which blazed a big fire of logs, but the cabin was perfectly bare of
furniture, save for the two square blocks of stone, roughly trimmed,
one on each side of the fireplace.

The hussar took his seat on one of these, and dried himself at the
fire, not without some trepidation, it must be owned. He was in the
supposed stronghold of the very demon that he had seen with his own
eyes the night before, and he knew not at what moment he might behold
that terrible form darken the doorway, and be engaged in a contest for
life with the terrible enigma.

But as time wore on, and nothing appeared, while the rain descended in
torrents overhead, and the fire hissed and sputtered as it struggled
against the tempest, the hussar’s spirits insensibly rose, and with
them his curiosity. He began to long to see the fairy form of Diana,
and even caught himself wishing that the demon himself might appear.

But still the solemn rain poured down amid peals of thunder without
cessation, and nothing came. The fire hissed and sputtered, and finally
roared up the wide chimney in triumph, the soldier dried his steaming
garments, and at last the storm slowly abated, and passed off, settling
into a gentle, drizzling rain, with a cold, gray sky, that looked as if
it had set in for a gloomy day.

Then Adrian Schuyler began to cogitate within himself what was best
to do. He knew that if he could not get to Derryfield, his labor was
in vain, and he was equally aware that without a horse he could never
expect to get there alive. Puzzling over his future course, he was
startled by the footsteps of a horse outside, and clutching his carbine
with his manacled hands, he started up and turned to the door. The
chain that connected his irons just gave him sufficient play for his
hands to fire a gun, and he expected an enemy.

What was his surprise at the group that met his view?

A horse without a rider, but saddled and bridled, was being led to the
door of the hut by a huge black bear, the very creature that he had
beheld gamboling with the girl the day before. The bear walked sedately
forward, holding the bridle in his mouth, and the horse followed as if
he was perfectly content with his clumsy conductor.

Full of amazement, Schuyler stepped out of the hut and looked around.
Not a human creature was to be seen, either in the clearing or at the
edge of the woods, but even as he stood there an arrow rose in the air
from the forest in a diagonal line, described a curve in the air, and
fell at his feet.

A little white note was attached to the arrow.

Instinctively Schuyler picked it up, just as the tame bear stopped in
front of him and stood rubbing his head against him, in a friendly and
confiding manner. The hussar opened the note and read as follows:

    “Ride the horse in sight of Derryfield. Then strip off his
    bridle, and turn him loose. I have ventured much for your sake.
    Keep our secret for mine.

                   “DIANA.”

“Ay, by heavens, I will, sweet Diana,” cried the hussar, in loud
tones, intended to catch the ear of a person concealed in the woods.
“A thousand blessings on your head. You have saved your country one
disaster.”

Without a moment’s delay he took the bridle of the horse, cast it over
the animal’s head, and mounted.

The horse was a nobly formed creature, but Schuyler could not help
noticing its strange appearance and trappings. The animal was
coal-black, without a white hair, and its housings were of the same
somber color, with a shabracque of black velvet, worked with a skull
and cross-bones on the covers. The same ghastly emblem was repeated on
the frontlet of the bridle in white, and the curb was shaped like a
human finger-bone.

The hussar was too much rejoiced, however, to find any fault with his
equivocal mount. It was evidently a fine horse; and a moment later, he
was galloping through the woods to Derryfield.




CHAPTER VIII.

BURGOYNE’S IMP.


The night brooded over the white tents, and glimmering fires of a great
army, which lay on the open ground near Saratoga. Street after street
of tents and marquees, in martial array, stretched its long lines, now
silent and dark, perpendicular to the color line. Outside the camp
glimmered embers of the few fires that were left burning, and some
distance off, on the plain, and amid the little patches of wood, were
the brighter fires that told of the outlying pickets.

Occasionally, the distant challenge of a sentry would be heard, to be
followed by the same routine of “Who goes there?” “Rounds.” “Halt,
rounds, advance one with the countersign. Countersign correct. Pass,
Rounds, and a-all’s well!” The last words drawn out into a long,
musical call, caught up and repeated along the line of outposts.

Inside the camp there were no lights, save in one spot, around the
headquarter tents, which were clustered, in apparent confusion, in the
vicinity of a large, half-ruined house, in which the commander kept his
private quarters.

In these tents lights were burning, fires were kindled in front, and a
number of officers were writing at different desks, while orderlies, at
short intervals, entered and emerged from the quartermaster-general’s
tent.

In the large, old-fashioned parlor of the farm-house, which was
still comfortably furnished, and lighted with two wax-candles in
silver candlesticks, a stout officer, in the scarlet uniform of a
lieutenant-general, was walking up and down, with his hands behind his
back, occasionally stopping to speak to a second officer in the dark
green uniform of the Hessians, who stood in an attitude of attention,
to listen and answer the questions of his commander.

General Sir John Burgoyne was a handsome and intellectual man, a little
past the prime of life, and by no means the tyrannical blockhead he
has been represented. On the contrary, his literary abilities were
quite considerable, his powers of mind great; and, up to this time,
his campaign had been conducted on sound military principles, his army
having carried all before it.

The expression on his face that night, however, was one of decided
anxiety, as he conversed with the officer before mentioned.

“How long has this been going on, baron?” he asked, at length.

“For a whole week, General, as near as I can find,” was the reply, in
very pure English, for Baron Reidesel prided himself on his accent.

“And you say that the Indians are beginning to leave us?”

“General, they have already left us, in large numbers. If something be
not done to stop the panic, to-morrow they will leave in a body.”

Sir John Burgoyne looked anxious and perplexed.

“Would to heaven the Government would not employ them at all,”
he said. “They do us more harm with their atrocities, than their
services balance. That unfortunate affair of Jenny McCrea has raised
public feeling against us to a fearful extent, and now, when they
might be most useful, they are frightened to death, and deserting,
because of some masquerading rebel, who plays tricks on them with
raw-head-and-bloody-bones apparitions. Have the soldiers heard of the
panic, baron?”

“I regret to say, General, that our own outposts are catching the
infection, since the Indian chief, Creeping Wolf, was killed in sight
of our pickets. The man or demon, whichever it be, seemed to laugh at
their bullets, and disappeared, so they say, in a blaze of red flame.”

“Bah!” said Burgoyne, contemptuously, “’tis some conjuring trick. It
can not be possible that our men are so foolish as to fear it. I must
see that the rounds keep them awake. The fellows grow lazy, and dream.
I shall visit the pickets myself to-night.”

Baron Reidesel brightened.

“The very thing, General. If we keep up their spirits, they will
recover. I only hope we can gain the Indians back.”

“There is only one way, that I see, baron. We must catch this fellow
who disturbs us, and hang him. Doubtless it is some rebel spy. One good
thing. St. Leger sends me word that Fort Schuyler must soon surrender,
and that will encourage the waverers. Then, Baum’s dragoons must be
at Bennington by this time. Let them bring us provisions, and I’ll
make short work of Schuyler’s militia. Go and ask General Fraser, and
Philips, and the rest, to come with us, baron. I’ll be ready in five
minutes, and will make a grand round of all the outposts.”

“Very good, General,” was the reply, as the baron saluted and left the
apartment, while Burgoyne, mechanically putting on his sword, stood by
the fire, moodily cogitating.

He was roused from his reverie by a slight noise in the room, and
looking, started in amazement.

A man of wonderful hight, but gaunt as a skeleton, stood within six
feet of him, looking at him out of great cavernous eyes, that glared
from the midst of a deadly pale face. The man was muffled in a long
black cloak, and his face was shadowed by a broad slouched hat. He
stood regarding Burgoyne in silence.

“Who the devil are you, sir?” asked the General, angrily, as soon as he
had recovered his first shock.

“Your fate,” answered the stranger, in a hollow voice.

“My fate?” echoed Burgoyne, contemptuously. “Perhaps, then, you are the
masquerading rebel who has frightened my Indians?”

“I am the demon of the forest,” answered the other, in the same hollow
tones.

Burgoyne laughed scornfully.

“Indeed? Then you are just the man I want to see. Here, sentry?”

He strode to the door and threw it open, expecting to see the sentry
usually stationed there.

There, across the threshold, lay the dead body of the soldier, in a
pool of blood!

Horror-stricken, Sir John recoiled a moment. Then, whipping out his
sword, he stalked up to the stranger, saying sternly:

“_You_ have done this, but, by heaven, you shall not escape.”

The unknown remained impassive, with his arms folded, and only smiled
sardonically.

“I told you I was your fate,” he said. “Be warned in time. Go back
while you may. A week hence will be too late.”

“Fool,” said the English General, contemptuously, “you may frighten
superstitious savages with your hocus-pocus, not me. Surrender, or you
are a dead man.”

For all answer the stranger advanced on the General with folded arms,
while fire and smoke began to issue from his mouth!

Incensed at the exhibition, Burgoyne made a violent thrust at the other
with his sword.

The weapon snapped on the stranger’s body as if it had been made of
glass, and the next instant Burgoyne felt the pressure of long, skinny
fingers on his throat, which he in vain tried to throw off, while the
stranger, with gigantic strength, pressed him backward and backward,
till he lay bent over his knee, slowly choking to death.

What would have been the result of this scene is not doubtful, but,
just at that moment, the sound of footsteps was heard in the passage,
with the clank of spurs and swords.

The terrible stranger cast down the nearly senseless body of the
General with a crash to the ground, and stood up.

A moment later, several general officers came up the passage, and
paused with horror at the sight which met them.

The murdered sentry lay across the threshold; Burgoyne, apparently
dead, lay on the floor by the table, while over him towered a gigantic
figure, extending _black, shadowy wings_, his pale face and burning
eyes glaring from between upright black horns, while fire and smoke
came from his mouth!

A moment later there was an unearthly laugh. The demon flapped his
wings over the table, and out went the lights in intense darkness!
Through the gloom came the hoarse shout:

“HA! HA! HA! HA!!! I GATHER THEM IN! I GATHER THEM IN!”

Then came a thundering report, as of the closing of a door and all was
still. The apparition had vanished.




CHAPTER IX.

THE FIEND OF THE OUTPOSTS.


The scene of confusion in the room was, for some minutes, quite
animated. Burgoyne’s subordinates rushed in, with drawn swords, calling
for lights, and feeling around in the darkness with their weapons. Then
came the tramp of feet and clash of arms in the passage, as a number of
the headquarter dragoons came running in, some carrying torches, and
all with drawn pistols.

The room was thoroughly explored, and the mystery deepened, for not
a trace of the intruder was found. There lay the murdered soldier,
and there was the commander, in the arms of Baron Reidesel, slowly
recovering from the rough handling he had undergone, but nothing
remained of the demoniac visitor, save the overturned candlesticks.
General Fraser--the quartermaster-general--General Philips, Sir Francis
Clark, and most of Burgoyne’s staff, searched the room, trying to
discover some means of exit, but found none. Every panel was sounded,
but none seemed hollow, and the General himself put an end to the
search by saying:

“Let it pass, gentlemen. Some ingenious scoundrel has been here, but he
is doubtless away by this time. We will visit the pickets. It shall
never be said that his majesty’s officers were frightened by a juggler.
Order up the horses.”

“But you are not fit to ride out, General,” objected Philips.

“I am always fit to do my duty, sir,” answered Burgoyne, coldly. “Come,
gentlemen, we have wasted too much time already.”

The courage of the commander was evidently far from being shaken by his
appalling visitation. He had not said a word of its nature yet, and his
staff were still puzzled, but Sir John’s decided manner overbore all
opposition, and they silently followed him to the horses, which were
already in waiting. Then, as calmly as if nothing had occurred, the
General proceeded on his trip to the outposts.

Burgoyne’s manner was absent and thoughtful as he rode along,
mechanically taking the direction of the outposts. Two dragoons rode in
advance of the party to answer the challenges, and they soon arrived at
the picket reserve, toward the American army.

The officer in command was called up, and taken aside by the General,
who questioned him closely.

“Has any disturbance occurred in your front to-night, sir?”

“Not yet, General, but--”

“But what, sir? Speak out.”

“We are led to expect one, General. Last night, it seems, that one
of the Indian scouts was murdered in sight of our advanced posts. My
predecessor warned me. A man on a black horse galloped by, and flames
of fire seemed to come from his mouth, they say. The moon was up, and
this Indian fired at the horseman, and then turned and ran in. The
horseman followed him, changing into the likeness of--I only tell it as
I was told, General--of the devil himself. Within fifty feet of this
reserve he overtook the Indian, and pierced him with a javelin. Then
came a red flash of fire, and the apparition threw the dead Indian over
his saddle, and fled like the wind, laughing in tremendous tones.”

“Did the sentries fire at him?”

“Yes, sir. They sent a regular volley after him, but he only laughed
louder and disappeared into the woods.”

Sir John Burgoyne remained, silently musing over this story, but he
made no comment. He was, in fact, quite puzzled.

Just as he was about to speak, an exclamation from one of the soldiers
caused him to look round.

Then he struck his hand on his thigh with a muttered curse.

“By heavens! there he comes again. Now let us see if he fools me a
second time.”

It was indeed true. The same weird figure that has already been
described, was galloping up, on a black horse, flames and smoke
proceeding from his mouth, while a stream of sparks came from the
muzzle of his horse. He was coming from the extreme right of the
picket-line, galloping recklessly past the videttes, while shouts,
cries, and shots, followed his course as he came.

Burgoyne turned to Sir Francis Clark, his favorite aid-de-camp.

“Sir Francis,” he said, in the sharp, quick tones of a superior giving
orders, “take the escort with you, and follow that fellow, till you
catch or kill him. He is a rebel spy, and doubtless wants to draw some
of us into an ambush. If he leads you to the rebel lines, come back and
report. I shall know how to deal with him. If not, follow him, till
your horses drop, and shoot down his animal, if you can. Away, sir.”

The aid-de-camp bowed low, and drew aside. The demoniac stranger was
still coming fearlessly on, in a direction that would bring him near to
their front, and Clark, gathering the twenty dragoons that composed the
escort, rode out to intercept him.

On came the demon in silence, the red sparks streaming from horse and
rider, as if about to charge the whole party.

Then, as he came within sixty feet, he uttered a loud, taunting peal of
laughter, and wheeled off toward the line of videttes.

“Gallop, march!” shouted the aid-de-camp, firing his pistol, and
dashing after. A volley of carbine bullets whistled round the wild
rider, but away he went, fast leaving his pursuers, the same loud,
taunting laugh coming back on the wind.

Away on his track went the whole party of dragoons, headed by Sir
Francis Clark, and in a few minutes the line of videttes was reached.
The alarm had already become general, and at least a dozen shots were
fired at the flying horseman, while a single vidette rode at him with
drawn saber.

Sir Francis, better mounted than the rest, was close behind, as the
demon met the dragoon. He heard a clash of weapons, and the wild rider
darted out unharmed, while the soldier threw up his arms and fell back
off his saddle, dead!

There was no time to lose, however. Shouting to his men to follow, the
English officer galloped on, keeping within thirty feet of the other,
till they reached the woods. Then, with a shrill laugh, the demon rider
darted under the arches of the forest, and Clark followed.

The moon was not yet up, and the darkness in the woods was intense,
but still the foremost horseman galloped on as if horse and rider well
knew the way. Sir Francis followed, almost alone, for the dragoons were
already strung out behind, owing to the severity of the pace.

Presently a crimson glow flashed up ahead, and the officer perceived a
long, flaring flame, that streamed from the head of the demoniac figure
in front, revealing the short black horns and the long cloak streaming
out behind, exactly like huge wings in appearance.

Amazed, but still resolute, the aid-de-camp followed on, still riding
at the same rapid pace through the arches of the wood.

The hoof-beats of the following dragoons grew fainter and fainter, and
still the two horsemen galloped on in a direction due west, away from
both armies. How long they rode, Clark could not tell, but hour after
hour passed by without any change in their relative positions. The
aid-de-camp rode a splendid horse, one of the few thoroughbreds then in
America, and horses of that blood, as is well known, will gallop till
they drop.

At the pace at which they were going, four hours of this work took them
many a mile from settlements of any kind, till they entered a broken,
limestone region. Then, of a sudden, the red flame went out on the
demon’s head, and, with a loud, mocking laugh, horse and rider plunged
into a narrow black gully, almost hidden in bushes.

A moment later, Clark pulled up, thoroughly bewildered, in thick
darkness. The light that had guided him had disappeared, and he was
alone in the woods.

Too wary to venture himself in an unknown region, the officer sat in
his saddle, musing on the best course to pursue. Then, with a muttered,
“That’s it,” he turned his horse’s head on the way homeward.

The animal, with the well-known instinct of his species, took up his
march without hesitation, as Clark had foreseen. The officer drew his
sword, and gave a slash at every tree he passed, leaving a white streak
in the bark.

“You may hide, master juggler,” he said to himself; “but if I don’t
track you to your haunt by daylight, it will be because there is no
virtue in a blaze.”




CHAPTER X.

MOLLY STARK’S HUSBAND.


The little mountain town of Derryfield[1] was full of the sounds of the
drum and fife, while companies of tall, raw-boned countrymen, some with
uniforms, more without, but all bearing arms and belts, were marching
to and fro in the streets, and on the green, to the lively notes of
“Yankee Doodle.”

In the best parlor of the “Patriot Arms,” the principal tavern of the
village, a remarkably tall and scraggy-looking officer, in the uniform
of a Continental General, was standing before the fire, with one foot
on the huge andiron, looking shrewdly at our friend, Adrian Schuyler,
who stood before him, still shackled.

The scraggy officer had very broad shoulders, and huge hands and
feet, but the flesh seemed to have been forgotten in the formation
of his powerful frame. He had a tall, narrow forehead, and a very
stern, shrewd-looking face of a Scotch cast of feature, with high
cheek bones, and very sharp black eyes. His nose and chin were both
long, the latter very firm withal. His manner was remarkably sharp and
abrupt. The nervous energy of the man seemed to be ever overflowing
in impatience and fiery ardor. Such was Brigadier-General--afterwards
Major-General--John Stark, the first leader of militia during the
Revolutionary War.

“Well, sir,” he said, as Schuyler concluded his relation, “I’m very
sorry that the rascals stole your commission, but your face is
sufficient. I believe your story. What does Schuyler want me to do?”

“To join him at Bemis’ Hights, General,” said the Hussar, with equal
business-like promptness.

“Well, sir, I’ll see him hanged first,” said Stark, with a snap of his
teeth.

Adrian hardly knew what to say to the eccentric brigadier, as he stood
there, nodding his head as if to confirm his words.

“General,” he began, “if any unfortunate accident deprives me of
credit--if you don’t believe I am properly authorized--”

“I told you I did, young man,” said Stark, with all his old abruptness.
“You’re enough like Phil Schuyler to let me see you’re his cousin.”

“Then, General, what am I to understand?”

“That I’ll see them all hanged first.”

And the iron brigadier compressed his teeth like a vise.

Adrian Schuyler began to wax indignant. Without even waiting for a
smith to file off his irons, he had ridden to Derryfield, turning loose
the black horse, as he had been bidden. Seeking General Stark in the
town, in his equivocal guise, he had been arrested by the patrol, and
brought in as a prisoner, when he had told his whole story without
reserve.

The presence of his gray charger--which had been captured, the night
before, around the General’s quarters--confirmed the truth of part
of his statement, while Stark’s clear penetration told him that the
handsome, open face of Schuyler was not that of a traitor. Being so
fully believed, the General’s brusque answer to his message vexed and
surprised him beyond measure.

“General Stark,” he began, indignantly, “do you call that a proper
answer to the lawful orders of a man like General Schuyler? Are you
aware--”

Stark interrupted him in his gruff, abrupt manner:

“Keep cool, young man. I know Phil better than you. He’s a good man--a
sight too good to be hustled from pillar to post by those asses of
Congressmen. They shan’t hustle _me_. I hold my commission from
New-Hampshire, and intend to stay here.”

“And do you mean to say, General Stark,” asked the hussar, fiercely,
“that I am to go back and report to General Schuyler that you refuse
to come to his aid, when the enemy are pressing him hard, and you have
three thousand men under your orders?”

Stark turned his head to the young man.

“You can tell him and any one else,” he said emphatically, “that John
Stark’s a man, not a post. They can send me all the orders they like,
and I’ll see them hanged before I obey them.”

Adrian Schuyler was now completely indignant, but he remained calm.
With quiet dignity, he said:

“General Stark, I have only one request to make of you, in that case.”

“Umph--umph! What is it?” grunted Stark, gruffly.

“Allow your men to restore me my horse, which I see at your quarters,
and let me ride back to my chief.”

“Umph--umph! Very good, very good. Have your irons off first, eh?”

“No, sir,” cried Adrian, fiercely; “not a favor from you but my own
charger. I would sooner die than accept aught else from a man who
deserted his country in the hour of trial.”

“Umph--umph! Gritty lad--gritty lad--like your pluck, by jingo--keep
cool--better have a smith and a dinner, eh? Look faint--_must_ have
dinner.”

This was indeed true, for Adrian had not touched food for twenty-four
hours. He was too angry, however, to accept the offer and turned away
to the door, when Stark’s sharp, metallic voice asked:

“Well, youngster, what are you going to tell Phil, if you get there
alive?”

“That you refuse to fight,” said Adrian, angrily.

“Oh, no, no--not a bit of it,” said Stark, in his quick manner; “not
by a big sight, youngster. You stay with me, and I’ll show you as much
fighting as any man wants, in two days.”

Adrian paused, irresolute. There was something in the voice of Stark
that sounded as if he was mocking him.

“What do you mean, General?” he asked sullenly. “If you are playing
with me, allow me to say that it is in bad taste to an officer in my
position, who has incurred danger to reach you.”

The eccentric General changed his manner immediately. He came up to
Schuyler and forced him, with rough kindness, into a chair by the table.

“You sit there,” he said gruffly. “I want to talk turkey to you.”

Then he rung a bell, and as the orderly entered, he gruffly ordered up
the “nearest smith and a good dinner.” The orderly did not seem to be
amazed at the singular order. He was an old dragoon, who had once been
a ranger of Stark’s company in the French and Indian war. He saluted,
and wheeled swiftly about, departing without a word.

“Now, see here, captain,” began the eccentric General, as the door
closed, “don’t misunderstand me. I’m going to keep you here, because
I know you can’t get back to your General now. Burgoyne has a body of
his infernal dragoons on the road here, and to-night I march to meet
them. I’ll not put myself under the orders of Congress--that’s flat.
They’ve cheated Arnold and me out of our fairly-won commissions, and my
State has granted what they refuse. I’m going to whip these British and
Hessian dragoons out of their boots, on my own hook, and if Congress
don’t like it, they can lump it. That’s flat, too. When I’ve whipped
the enemy, you can carry the news to Phil, if you please, and I shall
be glad of your help. What do you say now?”

Adrian had been silent during this singular address, which was spoken
in short jerks, the General stumping round the room all the time.

When he had finished, the hussar answered:

“I say you’re a strange man, General; but I’ll stay with you, if you
like. At all events, I can help you, till the road’s clear.”

Stark laughed in his abrupt manner, and clapped the other on the
shoulder, saying:

“You’re the right grit, lad, and if I don’t show you a few English
flags, the day after to-morrow, it’s because Molly Stark will be a
widow.”

The door opened, and in clamped a big country blacksmith, with his
basket of tools, while his blue coat, brass scales, and tall hat-plume
showed that he had just come in from “training.”

“Hang it, Zeke, we don’t want to shoe a horse here,” said Stark,
grinning. “This gentleman has been unfortunate enough to fall into
British hands, and they’ve ornamented him with bracelets. File them
off, so he can dine with me.”

“That’s me, Gineral,” said the smith, affably. “Ef I don’t hev them
irons off in five minutes, you kin take my hat.”

He was as good as his word, filing away at the irons with great vigor,
and when the tavern waiter entered with a large tray, some five minutes
later, Adrian Schuyler was rubbing his released wrists with a sense of
gratitude, while the smith, who had been cheerfully whistling over his
task, and replying affably to his General’s dry jokes, had just picked
up his basket to leave.

Adrian Schuyler, who was used to the formal discipline of the great
Frederick’s army, was wonderfully amused at the free and easy ways of
the General of militia, who behaved like an easy-going old father among
his uncouth soldiers. He had yet to learn that in that singular man,
John Stark, were concentrated the only qualities that enable a man to
drive up raw militia to the cannon’s mouth, with the steadiness of
veterans.




CHAPTER XI.

THE MOUNTAIN QUEEN’S WARNING.


The rain poured steadily down in torrents, and the heavens were all one
unvarying mass of leaden clouds. The outlines of the Green Mountains
were wrapped in driving fleeces of gray mist, and the chilly north-east
wind drove the rain aslant, splashing up the pools that collected in
every hollow.

Adrian Schuyler, at the head of a small party of horsemen, was slowly
riding along on his recovered charger, through the fields near the
little town of Bennington. He was wrapped in his long cloak, and
the rain dripped from his tall hussar-cap in a continued spout. His
followers were awkward, countryfied Green-Mountain Boys, but their
peculiar leathern costume told that they were all hunters, and not
agriculturists, by profession. Hunters they were, and first-class
shots, keen at detecting trails, and model scouts.

They rode on behind their leader, in single file, watching every little
patch of wood that might hide an enemy. Two men rode on each flank at
easy rifle-shot distance, beating up the brushwood, and leaving nothing
unsearched.

Their numbers and actions sufficiently told that they composed a
reconnoitering party, under command of the ex-hussar. It was a
noticeable fact in the history of the Revolutionary war, that those
officers who had served in European armies were treated with great
distinction whenever they could be induced to accept commands, and that
their career in American armies was generally very creditable, with the
exception of those coming from the English service. The latter, as in
the cases of Lee and Gates, were almost uniformly unfortunate, while
those provincials, such as Washington, Putnam, Stark, and Schuyler,
who had learned war in the French and Indian struggle, under English
tuition, were as uniformly good leaders. All which facts tend to prove
that the English system of war is inferior to that pursued, in Germany
especially, on the European continent; as also that American intellect
is able to attain a good result, even in a bad school.

Adrian Schuyler was a model light cavalry officer, and conducted his
party with due caution. A rifle-shot ahead, was the best scout of the
party, and every now and then, silent signals were exchanged between
the advance and the main body, that communicated some intelligence.
Presently the scout in front halted, and crouched on his horse’s neck.
Instantly, at a low word from Adrian, his party stopped, and the
officer rode slowly up to the side of his advanced vidette, to see what
was the matter.

“Thar they be, Cap,” said the scout, in a low tone, pointing to his
left front, “they’re gone into camp, as slick as molasses, and their
Dutch sentry ain’t got no eyes, I guess, for he’s a-blinkin’ this way,
jest like an owl on a fine day, and hain’t seen me.”

Schuyler, sheltering himself behind the other, and bowing his head, so
as to hide his tall cap, slipped off his horse and leveled a telescope
over the croup of the scout’s steady animal. A bluish line of smoke,
clearly visible against the cold gray background of mist and rain,
pointed out the position of the camp of Baum and his Hessians, detached
from the army of Burgoyne, to seize the stores at Bennington.

They lay in a square, compact mass, in a bend of the little rivulet,
called the Wollonsac, which covered their position. A green grove, at
the borders of the stream, furnished them with some shelter from the
rain, for otherwise they were compelled to trust to huts of straw.

A brown line of fresh earth, covering the whole front of their
position, showed that their commander was a cautious man, who knew the
value of intrenchments.

“There they are, sure enough, Kerr,” said Schuyler, as he shut up his
glass; “but I don’t see any Indians.”

“I’d admire to see the reptyles,” said Kerr, spitefully, “sneaking
round when _our_ boys are here, Cap. No, no, thur ain’t one of ’em left
near us, since the Mountain Devil’s up and arter ’em.”

“The Mountain Devil! Who’s that?” asked Adrian, surprised. It was the
first time he had heard allusions from others to the singular being
that had effected his own release from his late captors.

“Wal, Cap, that’s hard to say,” responded the scout. “Some say he’s
a real devil, some say he’s only a feller that’s got a spite against
the Injins. All I know is, that he’s been round lately, and skeered
every one on ’em out of the country. Folks say he’s b’en dodgin’ round
Burgoyne’s men, playin’ the same games, and that thur leavin’ for hum.”

“Has he been seen near our quarters?” asked the hussar.

“Nary time, Cap. He may be a devil, but if so, he’s a mighty friendly
one fur our side. He don’t only kill Injins and Tories, and leaves our
folks alone. We hain’t so much as seen him, though prisoners tells
mighty tough stories about him, how he’s got horns and huffs, and sends
fire out of his mouth, and sich like.”

Schuyler did not tell the scout of his own experience. He was too much
puzzled at the nature of the apparition.

He remained watching the camp of the English dragoons in silence,
feeling certain that his presence was unseen by the army, then turning,
he led his horse away out of sight.

He was about to lead his party round to reconnoiter from another
quarter, when one of the flanking scouts was seen to go off, at a
gallop, to the right, into the woods, as if in chase of something. A
moment later, a black horse, which the hussar recognized as the one he
had turned loose to go back to the Haunted Mountain, dashed out of the
woods, bearing a lady on his back, and came galloping up, pursued by
the scout.

Schuyler waved his hand to the latter to halt, for he recognized the
figure of the lady. Then, up galloped the unknown fair one who called
herself Diana, and checked her horse with fearless grace in front of
the party.

Diana was more beautiful, if possible, in the habiliments of
civilization, than she had been in her woodland guise. She was dressed
in a black riding-habit of velvet, laced across the breast in strange
imitation of a skeleton, in silver, and wore a little black hussar-cap,
with a skull and cross-bones in white on the front, the very costume
afterward used by the “Black Brunswickers” of Waterloo renown. She was
dripping with rain.

Without the slightest hesitation, she addressed Schuyler, earnestly.

“Sir,” she said, “you are in danger, and you know it not. A party of
savages, led by the Tory spy, Colonel Butler, are already between you
and your own forces, to cut you off. Retire, while there is time. I am
sent to warn you. They are now in yonder wood.”

As she spoke, she pointed to a piece of woods in their rear, and
wheeled her horse as if to flee. Adrian Schuyler impulsively caught at
the bridle.

“Tell me, at least,” he entreated, “that you will not run into danger
on our account. We are soldiers, you a woman.”

“No time for talking,” she answered, sharply. “Look yonder.”

He looked, and the edge of the wood was full of Indians.




CHAPTER XII.

THE PARTISAN.


At the sight of the Indians, the American Rangers instinctively
clustered together, and the flankers came galloping in.

That the enemy were in force was evident from the boldness with which
they showed themselves, coming running out, and spreading into a long
skirmish line, that threatened to cut off the rangers from any return
to their own army.

It was evident that they were in a trap from which there was no escape,
except by cutting their way out, twenty white men against nearly a
hundred Indians. The hunters that followed Adrian, bold as they were
by nature, began to evince symptoms of shrinking from the test. Brave
militia, as far as service in war went, they were as yet only the raw
stuff that veterans are made of. Many cheeks were pale, and there was
much nervous fumbling at weapons, but they kept silence and anxiously
watched the countenance of their young leader for advice and succor.

Adrian Schuyler had not served, as volunteer and officer, in the famous
corps of the Zieten Hussars, without profiting by the counsels of the
best leaders of light cavalry in Europe. He scanned the advancing line
of the enemy with great coolness, riding out in front of his men, and
using his telescope.

His example was inspiring to his men, and insensibly the most nervous
forgot his tremors when he saw the coolness of his captain.

The Indians were as yet out of gunshot, they were advancing on foot,
and some five or six horsemen were visible in their line. Adrian
watched them close, and saw that if he could break through the line he
could laugh at pursuit, all his men being mounted and most of the enemy
on foot. He turned his glass to the Hessian camp, and saw no symptoms
of disturbance there. The stolid dragoon sentries paced to and fro on
the parapet of the breastwork, and did not seem to notice the impending
conflict outside.

Then he turned to speak to his men, and met the blue eyes of Diana.
She was watching him apprehensively, as if she sympathized with his
danger, and longed to avert it, while powerless. Schuyler pointed to
the distant woods, saying:

“For God’s sake, young lady, ride away out of danger. The bullets will
soon be flying, and they will not respect even your beauty.”

“Why not come with me?” she asked. “I can lead you away by a path where
there are no Indians.”

“Thanks for your offer,” said the hussar, gratefully. “It is one that I
would accept, were it not that I have promised General Stark to be back
by a certain hour at his headquarters. My way lies through the enemy.”

“And do you really mean to charge those fierce creatures?” she asked in
a tone of wonder.

“I really do,” he said, quietly. “There’s not half as much danger as
you would think. Rapid motion will take us safe through.”

“Then I go with you,” said the girl, firmly.

Adrian laughed.

“Nonsense, Diana. Your presence here shows that you’re on our side,
but you can do no good with us. Depart while you may. They are almost
within gunshot.”

“I am going with you,” said Diana, firmly. “If it is a mere matter of
fast riding, I can ride too.”

“But you may escape by going the other way,” objected Schuyler.

“Which I shall not do,” she said. “I’ve taken a fancy to see what you
soldiers call a battle, and you can not stop me, so you may as well
attend to your men.”

The hussar shrugged his shoulders, and turned away to his followers,
just as several white puffs of smoke came from the enemy’s skirmishers,
followed by the thump, thump, of two or three bullets, tearing up the
earth around them. The horses began to fidget, and the faces of the men
were somewhat uneasy. Adrian saw that they must be encouraged at once,
or possibly desert in confusion.

He drew his sword and threw back the dripping cloak from his arm, while
he spoke to the rangers.

“Men,” he said, “it’s time we were doing something. Never flinch from a
few bullets at long range. Those fellows are firing to no purpose. Fall
in, and deploy as skirmishers.”

The rangers promptly obeyed the order. Adrian knew that in times of
danger, men should be occupied, and he insisted on his line being
formed in perfect order, even when the bullets began to whistle
unpleasantly near. The longer the men were exposed to a harmless fire,
the greater grew their confidence, and contempt for the enemy. As soon
as the line was formed, the hussar gave the signal to fall back, which,
as he anticipated, provoked a loud yell, and rattling volley from the
enemy, who took the run in their eagerness. The rangers retired at a
slow trot, the hussar keeping in the rear and watching his foe keenly,
till he saw that the rapid motion was producing the desired effect.

The excited enemy were firing wild.

“Halt!” he suddenly shouted. “Face about, lads! We’ve gone far enough.
Now, follow me, and charge!”

A moment later, with the fair Diana at his side, the ex-hussar was
bearing down on the Indians at full speed, followed by his rangers.
Schuyler’s men all carried broadswords, in the use of which they were
somewhat clumsy, it is true, but strong arms made up the deficiency.

The sudden change of demeanor on the part of the horsemen produced a
result highly favorable to them. The Indians, who always have a dread
of dragoons, fired a harmless, scattering volley, and were then left
with empty pieces while the patriots charged home.

“Now we have them,” cried Adrian, exultingly. “Ride over them, lads,
and then on to our own camp. If a man gets wounded, I’m mistaken.”

The example of their leader stimulated the men to greater courage, and
they uttered a hearty cheer as they drove on. The rain beat in their
faces, and the wind whistled past as they went, but the enemy were just
as much in the rain, and the Americans knew that the fire would damp
the powder of their foes.

It took but a minute to decide the question. At the full gallop the
whole party of the rangers neared the enemy, and far in front rode
Adrian Schuyler, closely followed by Diana.

The few horsemen who were with the Indians seemed to be officers, for
they were seen dashing up and down the line, encouraging the wavering
savages to stand. Adrian noticed one tall, powerful figure among them,
which he recognized as the Tory, Butler, and he bent his course toward
that part of the line, knowing that if he could overthrow the bold
leader, the followers would probably be demoralized.

A moment later, he charged against the partisan, who met him, wielding
a long broadsword.

Adrian was a splendid swordsman, and equally good horseman, and his
steed was perfectly trained, no slight advantage in a single combat,
mounted. His antagonist, however, proved to be equally matched. In
hight and weight he was far superior to Adrian, and his blows came like
those of sledgehammers, while his big horse obeyed the rein easily.

But the hussar didn’t wait long to fight. There were too many enemies
near him. His men had already dashed through the line, and were past
him on their way to Stark’s forces, when his antagonist suddenly,
without any visible cause, turned pale, dropped his sword-hand, and
wrenched his horse back several paces, while he glared over his enemy’s
shoulder, as if at some frightful vision.

Involuntarily Schuyler glanced back himself, and beheld the beautiful
face of the mysterious Diana close by, deadly pale with excitement,
while her long hair streamed over the cheeks, wet and clinging with
the rain, like that of a drowned person.

He turned once more to his foe, and beheld the hitherto fierce face
drawn down with abject fear, as the dreaded partisan ground out the
single word “_Diana!_” and then turned to flee.

Adrian’s horse bounded after him, and the hussar discharged a blow that
cut open the other’s shoulder, which, to his amazement, Butler never
even tried to parry.

The spiteful hiss of a bullet past his ear, cutting away a curl in
its passage, told him that he was not wise to tarry longer. Turning
away, he found himself and Diana almost alone amid the enemy, who
were rallying from their discomfiture, and hastening to cut them off.
The hussar uttered a shout of defiance, seized the bridle of his fair
companion, and galloped away after his rangers.




CHAPTER XIII.

BENNINGTON.


The stars were shining bright and clear in the heavens, where the gray
light of early dawn was beginning to pale a few on the eastern horizon,
and the remains of the rain-clouds were driving toward the sea under
the chilly north-west wind that ended the rain-storm.

A numerous force of men lay clustered in bivouac round the smoking
camp-fires, and at one fire, separated from the rest, General Stark was
walking to and fro, talking to Adrian Schuyler.

“And you say the girl galloped away from you, and would not even give
you her name?” he said, inquiringly.

“True, General.”

“Why didn’t you chase her and bring her in?”

“For two reasons, General. First, she had just rendered us an important
service. Secondly, her horse was too quick for any except mine.”

“Umph! sorry for it. Never mind, she’s a friend of yours, any way,
and we’ll pay her for it, Schuyler, if she comes around. But you
have brought me good news. I’ll have those fellows before the sunset
to-night, and Burgoyne may whistle for his rations.”

At that moment the clear note of a bugle, a little distance off, rose
sweetly over the silent landscape, blowing the reveille, and Stark
paused and consulted his watch, with a low chuckle, saying:

“I tell you what, Cap, our boys may not be as smart-looking as your
Prussians, but you’ll find them pretty prompt for all that. I don’t
believe your great Frederick could put his men under arms any quicker
than Jack Stark puts his Green-Mountain Boys into the ranks. Look
there.”

Adrian looked round, and smiled in approbation.

At the close of the long-call the whole bivouac had changed its
appearance as if by magic, and where there had been rows of slumbering
figures, now stood long ranks of armed men, rapidly assuming the order
of perfectly straight lines. The voices of the sergeants calling the
rolls rose on the morning air before all the bugles had ceased blowing,
and the camp assumed an appearance of order and bustle, not often seen
outside of regular troops.

Schuyler expressed his surprise at the discipline exhibited after so
short a training, and Stark abruptly broke him off.

“No wonder, lad, no wonder. These are not German louts picked up
anywhere, with heads like oxen. These are free men, come down from the
times of Cromwell, with hardly a change. It needs only that they should
see the necessity of order, and they’ll come to it, fast enough. Ha!
what’s that?”

His last words were elicited by the sound of a shot coming from the
picket-line, closely followed by two more. In a moment Adrian Schuyler
was on his feet, and standing close to his horse, which was tied to a
tree near by. The little squad of rangers under his orders, the only
cavalry in Stark’s command, was already ranged near by, answering
roll-call; and the captain sprung on his horse, with the intention of
calling them out, when the voice of Stark prevented him.

“Let it go, Cap. ’Tis but a single man, coming this way!”

Adrian followed the General’s pointing finger, and distinguished the
outline of a galloping horseman, rapidly approaching the fire in the
gray dawn.

Presently up dashed a man on a black horse, and halted suddenly in
front of the fire. Of his figure all that could be seen was a shadow
in a loose cloak, and a shadowy hat was slouched over a face of marble
paleness.

The strange horseman addressed himself to General Stark, as directly as
if he knew him well, saying in a deep, hollow voice:

“John Stark, if you wish to save your country, march on the enemy
at once. Reinforcements are coming up, and will be here by sunset.
Exterminate what are here, before the others come up, and God speed
you. Farewell.”

Then, before even the quick-witted General could guess his intention,
he was off, and galloping through the camp at full speed. Stark shook
his head as he looked after him.

“Yonder goes a strange man,” he said to Adrian, “and if I did not know
him, I should say a spy.”

“What, do you really know him?” asked Adrian, eagerly. “I, too,
recognized his face, but only as that of an apparition that--”

“What apparition?” queried the General, sharply. “What do you mean by
talking of such stuff, sir?”

“Only this, General,” said the hussar stoutly, “that the face I just
now saw under that shadowy hat is none other than that of the creature
your men call the Mountain Demon. I saw it only once, but I shall not
forget it in a hurry.”

Stark uttered his customary grunt, but made no further observation on
the occurrence, and very soon the duties of the camp took them both
away.

By the time the sun was up, the whole force was scattered round the
fires, busily engaged in cooking breakfast, and a short time after
columns of march were formed, and the little army of patriots took up
their march to the gay tune of the drum and fife.

       *       *       *       *       *

The British bull-dog and the German boarhound stood stubbornly at bay
behind the brown trenches in the little curve of the Wollonsac. At the
summit of a hillock stood a battery of four brass pieces, behind which,
rank upon rank of riderless horses stood patiently at their posts,
awaiting the result of the battle. The whole of Baum’s force was made
up of dragoons, who fought desperately on foot, to defend their led
horses.

All around the camp the grim circle of patriots was pressing closer and
closer on the British, in a ring of white smoke, through which the red
flashes of rifles shot incessantly. The rattle of musketry was, and
had been for three mortal hours, “one long clap of thunder,” as Stark
himself afterward wrote.

And still the battle hung in suspense. The General’s horse was shot
under him, and he rushed about on foot, his drawn sword gleaming in his
hand, encouraging his troops to stand up against the fearful fire. The
Americans had no artillery, and no bayonets on their rifles, but they
rushed on to the charge with just as much vigor as veterans, and still
the battle wavered.

It was just at this doubtful moment, when the least influence, one way
or the other was important, that a loud, ringing cheer was heard over
the roar of the musketry-firing, and through the white smoke rushed
several horsemen at full speed, riding up the hillocks on whose summit
the English battery was planted.

First on a charger as black as jet, rode a tall, thin officer in the
broad-plumed hat and black curling wig of many a long year before. His
black velvet coat and bright steel breastplate were those one sees in
the portraits of Louis the Fourteenth of France, and he waved a long
rapier in his hand, of the same antique fashion.

Even in the momentary glimpse caught of him amid the battle smoke, men
marveled at the paleness of his face, and at the weird fire in his
cavernous black eyes.

Following him closely was Adrian Schuyler, with his score of mounted
rangers, but all seemed to be under the sway and control of the pale
man on the black horse. A moment later, the black charger was among the
guns, and the long blade flashed in the air, as the pale rider smote
right and left with fearful strength.

Then like a wave, the handful of horse dashed on the dismounted
dragoons and cut their way through. It was but a trifling aid, but
all-sufficient.

The sight encouraged one party and discouraged the other
proportionately.

With a roar and a volley, the Americans followed, and the German
dragoons broke and fled.

Past the swaying, helpless herd of led horses they were driven, too
much harassed to be allowed time to mount. Pell-mell after them
followed the Green-Mountain Boys, and Bennington was won.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE PANIC.


Behind the ramparts of Fort Schuyler, near the present site of the
town of Rome, an officer in the uniform of a Continental colonel, was
standing in the twilight, looking out over the beleaguering camp of
St. Leger, with his Tories and Indians, at the siege batteries. The
increasing gloom alone made the situation tenable, for all day long the
Indian riflemen had been lying down outside the fort, behind stumps and
logs, picking off every one who ventured to show his head above the
rampart.

The position of the fort had been growing more desperate daily, for
its defenses were but slight at the best of times, and St. Leger’s
artillery had been battering at them steadily ever since the siege
first began, three weeks before. Provisions were growing scarce, and
the Indian scouts, constantly creeping closer to the fort, rendered a
sortie for forage impossible.

Colonel Gansevoort, the American leader, looked anxious and gloomy.
Before his men and the enemy he kept up appearances nobly, but now that
he was alone, the desolate nature of his position rushed on his mind
with overpowering force, and compelled a feeling of almost despair.

Two weeks before, the column sent to his relief under General Herkimer,
had been repulsed and almost annihilated, at the desperate battle of
Oriskany, and since that time not a word had reached him from the outer
world, save through the threatening dispatches of his foes.

All round the fort stretched the silent, primeval forest, for Fort
Schuyler was then at the extreme bounds of civilization. Out of those
woods came nothing but the whoop of the beleaguering savage, the
spiteful crack of the rifle-shot, and the booming report of the brass
howitzers.

There was not a ray of hope apparent to tell the Americans whether
they were not vainly persisting in a struggle which could have but one
termination, torture and death at the stake from the merciless allies
of the English General.

As Gansevoort was thus looking from the low log parapet, at the
twinkling circle of English fires, he was surprised to hear a low voice
from the ditch of the bastion on which he stood, calling him by name.
Starting, he hastily asked:

“Who’s there!”

“A friend,” replied the low voice, “with news from Schuyler. Come down
to the sallyport, for I must away when I have given my news.”

Without a moment’s hesitation the colonel left the rampart, and
hastened down to the sallyport spoken of by the other. This was a low
heavy door on the inner side of the ditch, approached by an underground
passage, and protected by the fire of two faces of the fort, and the
colonel emerged from this, finding himself confronted by a figure of
great hight, but thin and attenuated as a specter. This figure was
wrapped in a long, flowing cloak, and its face was hidden by a broad,
shadowy hat.

Under any circumstances, it is probable that Gansevoort would have felt
some distrust of the other, but as it was, he was too eager to hear the
news to be particular about how it came.

“The news, quick, man, what is it?” he whispered. “Good or bad?”

“Good,” answered the stranger, in the same low tone. “Read this letter.”

As he spoke, he extended both arms, the shadowy cloak hanging from
them, so as to conceal what passed from the view of any lurking
besieger. Gansevoort then noticed, for the first time, that the other
bore, at his belt, a small dark-lantern. He eagerly grasped the letter
which the stranger extended to him, and beheld the well-known bold
clerkly hand of General Schuyler. Quickly he ran it over.

  [2]“STILLWATER, August 15th, 1777.

    “DEAR COLONEL: A body of troops left this place yesterday,
    and others are following to raise the siege of Fort Schuyler.
    Everybody here believes you will defend it to the last, and
    I strictly enjoin you so to do. General Burgoyne is at Fort
    Edward--our army at Stillwater--great reinforcements coming
    from the eastward, and we trust all will be well and the enemy
    repulsed.

              “Yours faithfully,
               “PH. SCHUYLER.

  “COLONEL GANSEVOORT,
     “Com’d’g Post at Fort Schuyler,
        “By Capt. Erastus Benedict, A. D. C.”

For a moment Gansevoort’s feelings overcome him. The revulsion from
anxiety to hope was so great that he nearly choked, in his efforts to
suppress emotion. Then he turned to the tall stranger, seized his hand
and shook it earnestly.

“God in heaven bless you, captain,” he said, with trembling voice. “You
have saved a soldier from disgrace, and America from destruction. We
were nearly spent. Defend it to the last? Ay Captain Benedict, I will
do it now with tenfold the vigor I did. God bless the General for his
confidence in me, and all the brave fellows with him.”

The stranger’s hand, long, cold, and bony, lay passively in the grasp
of the colonel, till the latter had finished. Then he said, quietly:

“You mistake. I am not Captain Benedict. He is dead.”

“Who are you, then?” asked the American, starting.

“A friend to the cause. Let that suffice,” said the stranger in his
deep, hollow voice, dropping his cloak so as to conceal his lantern.
“I found Benedict in the hands of the Mohawks, dead and scalped. I
killed them and brought his letter. Now farewell. Whatever you see
to-night do not wonder. It bodes no ill, save to the enemy.”

He turned and vanished in the thick darkness that had now fallen over
fort and forest, and Gansevoort slowly and thoughtfully left the spot
and re-entered the fort.

A few minutes later, he was reading aloud to his officers the welcome
letter of Schuyler, and gladness diffused itself in every heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

The star that rose in the east at sunset was high in the zenith over
the besiegers’ camp, and the Indians were slumbering around their
camp-fires, while the nodding picket sentry hardly kept awake on his
post, when the loud blast of a horn echoed through the silent arches of
the forest, followed by a chorus of yells and cries that roused every
one in an instant.

Bewildered and half-awake, Tory and Indian scrambled up to their feet,
and the English General rushed out of his tent, half-dressed, to know
the meaning of the outcry.

Two Indians, yelling as they ran, were coming in from the outposts at
headlong speed, and their cries seemed to spread a panic among all the
neighboring savages, for wherever they were heard, Mohawk and Oneida,
Seneca and Tuscarora, alike joined the swelling mob that came rushing
through the camp.

“The rebels! the rebels are coming! Run! Run!” was the cry that was
speedily taken up, by white and red alike, when they heard the alarm
more plainly.

Although not a foeman was to be seen, there were sounds of a trampling
in the woods, the snapping of sticks and an occasional shout in the
distance, which gave color to the panic.

In vain St. Leger and Sir John Johnson rushed to and fro, trying to
arrest the causeless rout. The tumult was too great for their voices
to be heard. The Indians, from the very first, commenced a retreat
_en masse_, as if by previous concert; then one regiment of rangers
gave way and scattered through the woods, despite the cries of their
officers, going to the rear at a run, shouting, “The rebels are coming!”

In less than ten minutes from the first blast of the horn, the two
English leaders were left almost alone, and when the glare of torches
in the distance, with the sight of armed men on horseback, showed them
that an enemy was indeed approaching, they found that they had not
sufficient following to resist a squadron of dragoons. Utterly amazed
and demoralized, the two Englishmen were fain to follow the example of
their followers, and hastily mounting their horses, galloped away to
join the rout.

Meanwhile the trampling came nearer and nearer, and soon, out of the
woods rode Adrian Schuyler, at the center of a long, scattered skirmish
line of American Rangers, in the white frocks of Morgan’s Rifles, every
man bearing a torch of pitch pine.

They advanced warily, but boldly, only to find the enemy’s camp
deserted, the idle artillery silent in the batteries, the ground
strewed with forsaken weapons and stores.

Adrian rode up to the bastion on whose summit stood the amazed
garrison, and waved his torch in salute, crying:

“Gentlemen, you are saved. We are the advance of the relief column
under General Arnold. Burgoyne has lost all his cavalry at Bennington,
and lies at Stillwater, surrounded by our men. Hurrah for Independence!”

The cheer was given with a will.




CHAPTER XV.

THE EXPEDITION.


Two months have passed away, and the scarlet and gold of the fall is on
all the vast forest that borders the Mohawk river.

In the English camp near Bemis Hights, General Burgoyne is holding a
council of war with his officers, and the tall, burly form of Colonel
Butler, in the dark green frock of the Johnson Greens, is conspicuous
among the scarlet of the Generals. Butler has his left arm in a sling,
still, from the effect of Adrian Schuyler’s cut, and his face is heavy
and lowering as ever, as he urges some measure on the council with
great energy.

“I hardly think, colonel, that the end warrants the risk attending
the expedition,” said Burgoyne, at last. “This unfortunate affair at
Bennington has crippled us badly, and we must not risk the little
cavalry we have left on an uncertainty. The enemy’s parties are bold
and wary, and there is no assurance that the whole party will not be
taken prisoners or killed.”

“General Burgoyne,” said the partisan, grimly, “I stake my head on the
result. I have not lived in this country for twenty years, without
knowing every secret path. I will take your men by a way that no rebel
shall hear of, and if I do not clear up this mystery of the Mountain
Demon I will consent to be shot.”

“Your death would be a poor satisfaction for failure,” cried Sir John.
“What do you expect if you succeed?”

“To save the army,” said Butler, boldly. “A month ago we were in good
position, our allies swarming all round our flanks, bringing us news
of the enemy. This juggler or demon has done more to drive away the
faithless hounds of savages than anything else.

“While he remains a mystery not an Indian will stay in your camp. Let
me once expose and unmask him, and they will flock to your standards
anew. General, I speak as I feel, strongly. Twice has this fellow
caused me to fail in my plans by his diabolical appearance, frightening
away all my followers, and once even myself. At last I hit upon a clue
to his identity, and Sir Francis Clark’s story confirms my suspicions.
The place where he disappeared is well known to me, and if you will
give me one squadron of dragoons, I engage to bring the impostor back,
and with him our reassured Indian allies. I say that the gain is well
worth the risk.”

When the partisan had finished, there was a deep silence in the room.
Even Burgoyne felt the force of his words. It was true that his Indian
allies had deserted him, wholesale, till he was left alone in an
enemy’s country, without the means of obtaining intelligence, while his
situation daily grew more desperate.

Excepting for the short intervals at the battle of Bennington and
the flight of St. Leger, the ubiquitous visitor who had haunted his
outposts so long made its appearance nightly, sometimes in one shape,
sometimes another. Though chased and fired at, horse and rider were
never harmed. Sometimes in the same likeness in which it had loomed
through the battle smoke of Bennington, sometimes in the shape of the
enemy of mankind, sometimes as a living skeleton gleaming in fire
through the darkness, every night when the moon was absent the specter
appeared.

The Indians were thoroughly cowed from the first when a white female
figure was seen on the croup of the black horse, misty and ghost-like,
as happened at the first visit. The wanton murder of poor Jenny McCrea
recurred to their minds and they guiltily believed that her ghost was
haunting them.

When the last Indian had fled, there was a short respite from this
persecution of the outposts, only to return in a new form.

Since the flight of St. Leger, the English soldiery, harassed as they
were by short commons in the day were deprived of sleep during the
night by constant alarms. When the camp was at its quietest, and all
were hoping for a quiet night, suddenly would come the blast of a horn,
followed by shouts and shots, and they would see a squad of fiery
figures on fiery horses galloping through the pickets cutting down the
surprised soldiers.

Before a resistance could be organized, the unearthly visitors would
disappear; leaving their marks in the shape of two or three videttes or
sentries shot down. The attacks were never serious, never pushed far,
but they occurred every night, sometimes in one quarter, sometimes in
another, always coming suddenly and without a moment’s warning, till
the pickets began to become demoralized, and the men could hardly be
induced to stand guard at any distance from the camp.

It was under these circumstances that Colonel Butler, the partisan,
offered his services at the council of war, to solve the mystery of the
demon and his crew.

General Burgoyne was the first to break the silence that ensued on
Butler’s speech.

“Gentlemen, you have heard Colonel Butler. You know the risk. We have
but one squadron of cavalry left. Shall we venture it? General Fraser,
are you in favor of risk?”

“I am,” replied the officer addressed.

“And you, Philips?”

“Decidedly.”

“And you, baron?”

“Certainly. If we lose them, we are no worse off, behind our works. If
we stop the enemy from annoying us, we have gained something.”

“Enough, gentlemen. Sir Francis Clark will accompany Colonel Butler,
and guide the party to the place to which he tracked the strange being
when he followed him, a few weeks ago. The council is dismissed.”

       *       *       *       *       *

On the afternoon of the 5th October, a strong party of dragoons left
the English camp headed by the bold and wary partisan who has figured
in our pages under so many different names, in reality the most trusty
spy and best leader of Indians in the pay of Burgoyne. Of his former
history even his commander knew nothing, save that he had joined to
volunteer his services at the taking of Ticonderoga.

Some baleful spirit seemed now to animate the partisan, urging him on
to feverish eagerness, as he hurried the departure of the dragoons, and
rode off, accompanied by Sir Francis Clark. The sound of the American
bands behind Gates’ intrenchments, could be distinctly heard; for,
since the battle of the 19th September, the English had moved forward
to within cannon-shot of the American lines, where they had fortified
themselves.

Butler shook his clenched hand at the enemy’s quarters with a look of
rage, muttering to Clark, as he rode away:

“Let them blow and whistle, Clark. Once give me back my Indians, and
we’ll soon sweep them out of the path.”

“If we can not do it without Indian help,” said the aid-de-camp,
coldly, “I see but little chance of success. The Indians are but
unreliable cattle at the best.”

Clark was by no means an admirer of Butler or his allies. In common
with most of the cultivated English officers, he fell a strong
repugnance to the employment of such barbarous allies.

Butler laughed sardonically.

“Ay, ay, that’s the way they all talk when ill luck falls on a man. I
am no leader of pipeclayed grenadiers, and you look down on me. But by
the light of heaven, Sir Francis, once let me get my warriors back,
with my old corps of rangers, and I’ll show you that Indians can fight.”

The officer made no answer, and they rode on into the woods, till they
struck the blaze that Sir Francis had made with his sword, which they
followed without much difficulty.

Once on the track, the partisan took the lead at a rapid pace. His keen
and practiced eye read the signs of the forest with far more ease than
the aid-de-camp, even though the latter was following his own trail.
The length of time since the blaze was made, and the faint nature of
the marks would have puzzled the officer not a little, but to the
partisan the task was but child’s play.

On they went at a pace of seven or eight miles an hour, through the
rapidly darkling woods, till they found themselves, at sunset, in a
country broken by ravines, where the blaze abruptly ended before a
thicket of wild raspberries, which hid the entrance to a narrow gorge
in the side of a hill.

Here Butler dismounted, and examined the vicinity carefully, when
he announced to the aid-de-camp that a party of Indians were in the
vicinity, and that he was going to seek them out and call them to his
assistance.

The marks of moccasins had not deceived him. When he sounded a peculiar
call on his turkey-bone whistle, it was answered almost immediately,
and, soon after, a war-party of Mohawks made its appearance.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE DEMON’S HAUNT.


The Mohawks proved to be a small party who had fled from Burgoyne,
and when they were informed of the errand on which the white men had
visited that lonely spot, one and all expressed unbounded terror. In
coming into the wilderness they had hoped to escape the presence of the
demon whose presence they associated with Vermont and Stillwater.

When they were told by Butler of the scene which he himself had
witnessed on that very spot--the one described in the commencement of
our tale--and learned that the Mountain Demon had frequently made his
appearance in those very woods, had in fact been tracked thither, the
bravest warriors trembled, and began to look apprehensively around
them, to flee.

Butler checked them from flight with consummate craft.

“Whither would my brothers fly?” he asked. “If this be a demon, he will
catch you in the woods; and when was he known to spare a Mohawk? With
us lies your only safety. I am the Night Hawk, that sees in the thick
shades, and my spirit is more powerful than his. Remain with us, and I
will show you that all the demons of wood and mountain can not frighten
the Night Hawk. This is a cunning medicine-man of the rebels, but I
also am a cunning medicine-man, and I will show you that I am stronger
than he.”

This address reassured the warriors somewhat. They had a profound
respect for the partisan, and the mere fact of his coming there
expressly to solve the mystery of the demon argued that he had no fear
of him. When the Night Hawk called on them to follow him, they made no
more objections and the party advanced.

The dragoons dismounted--part of them--and gave up their horses to
the third of their companions, who remained in the saddle, under
Sir Francis, to guard the horses. The men on foot, looking to their
muskets, and fastening their sabers to the saddle, under Butler’s
orders, formed in rear of the Indians, both to support them and to
guard against their flight.

Then, with the partisan at their head, they advanced to the hollow tree
in which the demon had once disappeared, which, as Butler had surmised,
proved to be the entrance to a cavern.

Looking into the hollow, a gulf of unknown depth appeared below them,
and the partisan hesitated a moment. Then he drew back and called for a
lantern. Several had been brought, and they were quickly lighted, when
Butler, boldly taking the initiative, leaped down the cavity and found
himself on firm ground, not six feet from the surface.

With a cheery call, he held up the lantern to his followers, and
disclosed the entrance to a rude flight of steps, cut downward into
the earth, in a bed of solid rock. In a few moments an Indian chief
followed, trembling visibly, but resolved not to give way before the
white men.

Fastening the lantern to his belt, and holding his rifle ready for use,
the resolute partisan slowly descended the steps, emerging at last
into a lofty hall, crusted with stalactites, on which the light of the
lantern flashed as if on a wall of diamonds.

He heard the soft, moccasined footsteps of the Indians, then the heavy
clatter of spurs, as the dragoons descended, and at last the whole
party entered the chamber, and stood gazing in wonder around them.

All were much more at their ease now. There were no signs of the demon
as yet, and of caves all had heard.

Butler now made a fresh disposition of his forces. Of lanterns there
were seven, of that kind called bull’s-eyes, and he ordered the
soldiers bearing them to form a line behind him and advance abreast,
casting a broad glare ahead. He knew that the Indians would not dare to
leave him in the thick darkness of that cave.

They advanced through the long chamber, the only sounds audible being
their own footsteps, and the hurried breathing of the excited men.
Presently a narrow passage compelled them to stoop low and go in single
file over a broken, crooked path, till they emerged into a second
chamber, larger than the first, and the light of the lanterns came
back to them from the mirror-like surface of a black pool, into which
Butler had nearly fallen.

As he recovered himself with an involuntary exclamation, a loud,
mocking peal of laughter sounded from the roof above them, and the
sound, repeated by the echoes, came with a terrible effect to the ears
of the explorers. As if to test their nerves to the utmost, there was
a rushing in the air, close by, and a swarm of bats swished past them,
brushing them with their wings and tangling in the long hair of several
dragoons.

The confusion in the narrow passage was indescribable. The German
dragoons cursed in guttural accents, the Indians uttered their startled
“Hugh!” and all struggled together to flee, jammed up against the rocks.

The thundering voice of Butler recalled them to their senses.

“Halt, fools!” shouted the enraged partisan. “Do ye fear the empty
laugh of a single man, and a few bats? Forward, and keep your rifles
ready! We are hunting this juggler to his hole at last. He is here.
Follow me, and we’ll soon find out.”

No sooner had he finished than the same demoniac peal of laughter
echoed through the cave, seeming to come from overhead. The bold
partisan shouted defiantly back, and his men, reassured, followed him
onward into the cave, skirting the black lake as they went. It was a
large chamber in which they found themselves, but its border was very
narrow round the lake. After the second peal of laughter, all was
silent.

Butler paused at a place where the white rock shelved out into the
water making a broader platform. He cast the light of his lantern all
round the cave, but could see no further path on the shore. The inky
waters came up to the platform and another step would only plunge them
into its icy depths.

Then he turned his gaze on the wall of rock and perceived a rude
pathway leading up in a zigzag and reaching a platform above that on
which he stood. Beyond it was a great black opening in the midst of
which stood a sheeted ghost, gleaming snow white against the black
background with all the startling effect of reality.

For a moment the blood rushed to the heart of the bold partisan, so
weird was the vision. The men behind him had also caught sight of the
fearful figure and uttered low exclamations of terror. Butler was the
first to recover.

“Follow me, fools” he said. “’Tis only a stalactite after all. See it
glitter.”

“HA! HA! HA! HA!!!”

Again the fearful hollow laugh sounded above them, with its peculiarly
ghastly mockery, and the echoes in the cave repeated the sound again
and again, till it seemed as if a legion of demons was loose.

But Butler was not to be longer daunted by sounds, however fearful. Up
the steep path he rushed, rifle in hand, toward the white figure in the
gloomy portal, and his men after a little hesitation followed him.

Hardly had they reached the top, than a bright glare of crimson fire
illuminated the rocky cavern, making every thing bright as day, and
turning the whole vast chamber into a palace of jewels.

The glare came from a column of red flame that shot up in the midst
of the dark archway, where the great white stalactite shone out with
startling vividness.

Not a living creature was visible before them, but the column of flame
made it certain that some one must be near by to have lighted it.
Butler rushed forward, calling to his men to follow, and then suddenly
recoiled, as _three_ fiery figures sprung out from the wall and rushed
forward waving burning swords that shone with blue flames.

The effect was instantaneous on all but Butler. The Indians yelled with
terror and plunged down the path, running headlong for the opening by
the merciful light of the flame. The dragoons fired a hasty random
volley with their rifles and fled after them, and the next moment out
went the light and the three fiery figures went sailing through the
air over the black lake like birds of hell, uttering the same fearful
screeches that had driven the savages to flight.

In a moment more Butler was alone on the platform, and one of the fiery
figures, waving its wings, swooped down on him, and striking him with
unmistakably solid feet, sent him headlong into the black lake with a
splash.

Then with a final peal of demoniac laughter all three of the
apparitions circled back to the rock and disappeared, leaving Indians
and dragoons to find their way out as they could.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE LAST BATTLE.


A silent and dejected cavalcade was slowly emerging from the woods
behind Burgoyne’s quarters, on the morning of the 7th of October. It
was the returning party under Butler, disappointed of their aim, beaten
and dispirited.

The partisan, after his ducking in the lake and the flight of his men,
had certainly evinced rare courage, for he had actually returned to the
assault on the following morning, provided with a quantity of torches
of flaring pitch pine.

Under the stimulus of plenty of light, the dragoons had behaved better,
although nothing could induce the Indians to venture back. They had
thoroughly explored the first and second cave without any further
annoyance, but neither did they make any more discoveries. By what
means the three strange apparitions had managed to execute their flight
over the lake, remained a mystery, but they had evidently vanished, for
not a trace of living creature, save bats, was found.

Chamber after chamber, grand, beautiful, grotesque, and horrible, was
passed, but they heard no more the mocking echo of demoniac laughter.

Full of rage and disappointment, Butler returned to the outer air,
to find that his Indians, useless and superstitious as they were
underground, had made an important discovery by the light of day,
outside the limits of the cavern.

The tracks of three horses were found, quite fresh, at a little
distance from the cave mouth, and they led toward the camp of Burgoyne,
from another ravine.

The back trail, when followed, led to another opening in the hillside,
and it became evident that the tenants of the cave, human or
supernatural, had escaped.

The brow of the partisan grew dark and gloomy when he heard the news,
but he made no remark. Even since the plunge into the subterranean
lake, he had been much depressed in spirits, and now it was with sullen
apathy that he agreed to the proposal of Sir Francis Clark, and led the
return to Burgoyne’s camp.

The distance was so great--nearly forty miles--and their pace so slow,
that it was not till the dawn of the following day that they came in
sight of the English army, and started to hear the first guns of the
decisive battle of Bemis’ Hights, better known as Saratoga.

Sir Francis Clark started when he heard the sound, and when a second
report came booming through the woods, he gathered up his reins, turned
to Butler hastily, and said:

“Excuse me, colonel. Bring on the party as slowly as you like. _My_
duty takes me to the General.”

Then waving his hand, he struck spurs into his thoroughbred, and
galloped off down the road, at full speed, toward the sound of the
distant firing.

Butler hardly seemed to notice his departure or the firing. The whole
air of the man was that of gloomy depression, with a certain expectant
apprehensive look, as if fearing coming evil. He rode slowly on, while
the sound of the cannon became more frequent, sounding dull and hollow
behind the encircling woods.

The men behind him conversed together in whispers. They did not seem
to have the eagerness of Sir Francis Clark to go into the battle. Old
soldiers seldom do. They know too well what is coming. The German
dragoons that followed Butler were all veterans, and though they would
go into any danger unmurmuringly, there was a kind of stolid caution
about them that prevented any eagerness.

Besides, the gradual approach, at a slow pace, to a battle, that one
hears, but cannot see, especially if the prospect is limited by woods
in all directions, is peculiarly depressing to the boldest spirits, and
causes unwonted silence to most men, who would march gayly on, in an
open country.

Thus the dragoons following Butler ceased to converse at all, and
pressed silently on behind their dogged leader, who took his way
forward on the narrow, dusty road, the boom of guns growing more and
more frequent, and answered by the more distant reports of the cannon
from the intrenchments of Gates.

At last, an opening appeared in the trees ahead, and a white cloud of
smoke was visible, hanging in the air over a stubble field, beyond
which a little brown house nestled in the corner of a wood.

The sight seemed to have an effect on Butler which hearing had failed
to produce. Instinctively he gathered up his reins and quickened his
pace, while his eye roamed over the battle-field with a practiced
glance. It was evident, to a soldier, that no serious fighting had yet
begun, for the guns were firing at regular intervals, and the scarlet
lines of the grenadiers stood behind them, while the dark green masses
of the Hessians were scattered over the ground to the left, near the
glaring stacks of arms.

On the American side, all was quiet. No motion could be perceived
behind the dark curtain of the woods, flecked with gold and crimson as
it was, in the tints of Indian summer.

Occasionally, however, the distant report of a heavy gun was followed
by the whirr and hum of a round shot, which came high over the trees,
and plunged into the ground in front of the British lines.

“Artillery duel--much noise and no damage,” muttered Butler, in a tone
of scorn, as he watched the scene. “If I had my will, they would try a
night attack. The cursed Yankees can beat them at shooting.”

His course led him toward the rear of the British, and he was nearing
the line, when something caught his quick eye, and he halted.

Three figures on horseback were riding slowly toward the American
lines, in a hollow that hid them from British view, and he recognized
them in an instant.

One wore the broad-plumed hat and strange, antique dress of the
mysterious being that had haunted him so long, the second was Adrian
Schuyler, in his gay hussar trappings, and the third was the same girl
who had a month or two before caused such a shock to the generally
immovable courage of the partisan.

Butler uttered a low, inexpressibly savage blasphemy, as he looked at
the three figures, riding so tranquilly past, with their backs toward
him, and evidently unconscious of his presence.

“Now,” he muttered, in a tone of intense eagerness, “now I have them at
last, in daylight, and they shall fool me no longer. What if the girl
does wear _her_ face? _He_ at least, I know, and hate. I have shamed
him once, and now I’ll have sweet revenge, if I lose life for it.”

He turned in his saddle, and drew his sword.

“Men,” he said, in a low voice, “yonder are three rebel spies. Follow
me and take them, if it costs us all our heads. Will you come?”

In a moment twenty swords were out, and the soldiers answered him with
eager assent.

“Charge!” shouted Butler, driving in his spurs, and away he went at
full speed after the three quiet equestrians.

The tall cavalier in the Louis XIV dress turned quietly in his saddle
when he heard the thunder of hoofs on the road behind him, and spoke a
few words to his companions, with a gesture of contempt.

Then, as Butler came within a hundred yards, the two black horses and
the dapple-gray started at a tremendous rate of speed, which speedily
distanced the lumbering dragoons, and taxed the utmost exertions of the
steed of the partisan himself, to maintain his place.

In vain he plied his spurs. His horse was doing its best and nothing
could be gained. Presently the road gave a turn round the wood, and
they came in sight of the American lines, as also within gunshot of a
long rank of horsemen, in the white frocks of Morgan’s riflemen. The
tall cavalier pulled up, and turned to meet Butler, at that sight,
while Adrian and Diana rode on.

The dogged courage of the partisan never failed him, though his men
were not within supporting distance. He thundered on to meet the
stranger, and broadsword and long rapier met with a savage clang.

“_Alphonse de Cavannes! I have you at last!_”

“_Pierce Harley, your time is come!_”

Hissing the fierce greetings between their teeth, the combatants closed
in a mortal struggle.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE SKIRMISH.


It was evident that both men recognized each other as old enemies, for
they met with a ferocity that told of undying hate. The long rapier and
the broadsword clashed together and played in circles of angry light,
and the horses wheeled and bounded, obedient to hand and heel, as if
they shared every wish of their masters.

The combatants were by no means unequally matched. The dark stranger
with the pallid face was much the taller, but his long, lean frame
lacked the compactness and solid force of the Herculean partisan. The
inferiority in strength was fully made up by an activity and fierce
energy that bordered on the supernatural, and the stranger fought with
all the vigor of the demon he had so successfully personated.

The partisan, without the lightning velocity and energy of the other,
had yet a towering strength, joined to consummate skill with his
weapon, that made him a terrible antagonist. His horse was much heavier
than that of his foe, and seemed to be equally well trained. Whenever
they clashed together, the heavy steed of Butler sent the slight black
charger reeling from the shock, and the fierce blows of the partisan
beat down the guard of the unknown at every encounter.

The pale cavalier, however, found his revenge in the more insidious
and deadly thrusts, which he found occasion to deliver at intervals,
with his longer and lighter weapon; and twice did he draw blood with
his point, while he received in return a single slash only, which fell
short of its full intention, and plowed a long gash in his thigh, with
the point of the broadsword.

All these cuts and points passed in the space of half a minute,
during which the two men fought with a fury that must have completely
exhausted them in a short time.

Then the combat was interrupted as suddenly as it had begun, by the
thunder of hoofs close by, as the German dragoons swept down on the
contending parties, with loud hurrahs, in a cloud of dust!

He who had been called De Cavannes broke away from his enemy as the
dragoons rushed in, and was soon surrounded with foes, whom he bandied
with a coolness and vigor that showed the great difference between them
and their leader. Then came a counter rush of hoofs, with the cracking
of rifles and the whistle of bullets, and down galloped a troop of
Morgan’s redoubted Mounted Rifles, yelling their war-cry. In the midst
of the new-comers rode the dashing hussar, Adrian Schuyler, his pelisse
flying behind him, his saber waving, while the dapple-gray charger
swept on like a storm-gust.

In the first assault his sword clashed against that of a German
dragoon, and then darted through a man’s body up to the hilt like a
flash. The hussar’s horse, rushing on, actually bore the poor wretch
out of his saddle by the leverage of the sword, and Adrian was not
able to extricate it in time to guard a blow from one of the German’s
comrades. The long, straight broadsword, whistling as it came,
descended on the summit of the tall fur cap, and clove it down on the
hussar’s skull with crushing force, stunning him so that he fell over
on his saddle-bow, confused and almost senseless. How he might have
fared is doubtful, had not De Cavannes, at the same moment, caught the
dragoon across the face with a backhanded slash of his long keen sword,
that divided his nose, and sent him reeling back in his saddle, giving
Adrian time to recover himself.

Then the conflict waxed furious.

Morgan’s men were superior in numbers to the dragoons, but their arms
were by no means equal to those of the others in a close fight on
horseback. Few had any thing but rifles and pistols, and those few who
carried short hangers knew but little of their use, compared to the
well-instructed German swordsmen.

On the other hand, their numbers and courage told in their favor. Many
clubbed their rifles, and laid about them with a vigor that laughed at
the broadswords. Where a man was cut down or run through, some comrade
would fell his slayer with the butt of a rifle. Only the terrible
partisan, Butler, made his heavy sword of more weight than the clubbed
rifle. He raged through the fight, driving back the stoutest riflemen
like children, with his enormous strength. Meeting Adrian Schuyler,
when the press prevented maneuvering, he beat down his guard, and
felled him to the earth with a single stroke, then turned to face De
Cavannes, who was making toward him through the swaying crowd.

But such savage fighting could not last long. Strong and brave as were
the dragoons, the increasing numbers of Morgan’s men bore down their
opposition by sheer weight of horse-flesh, and the whole mass drove
down toward Burgoyne’s lines, struggling and shouting, but too closely
packed to allow the use of weapons of any size.

Then, at last, the hunting-knives of the riflemen came into play, and
they made it too hot for the dragoons, who, one by one, broke out of
the fight, and fled toward the English army, pursued by the shouting
riflemen.

Even the generally indomitable Butler was fain to turn his horse, his
vengeance unsatisfied, and quit a fight in which he had only overthrown
one of his enemies.

Adrian Schuyler, stunned and bleeding from a head wound, scrambled to
his feet in the dusty road, and beheld De Cavannes, dismounted, and
approaching him as if to assist him.

It seemed as if some mutual understanding existed between the two,
however originating, for Adrian evinced no surprise at the other’s
coming. He staggered slightly and put his hand to his head, saying
faintly:

“I fear, count, that I have not done you credit to-day. The villain has
escaped, and ’tis my fault.”

The mysterious stranger smiled gravely, as he answered:

“Boy, you did your best, but fate must be fulfilled. He will not escape
forever. No! If he did, I should almost believe there is no God of
Justice.”

Seen by the light of day, the strange being was of noble figure. His
great hight and spare make did not detract from, but rather added to
the air of mystery and dignity that surrounded him. His pallid face,
not now distorted by assumed expressions, was noble and intellectual
in outline, and the antique dress that he wore, with the flowing,
black, full-bottomed wig, added to the majesty of his looks, while the
long, black mustache evinced that its wearer must have been a cavalry
officer, that facial ornament being peculiar to the mounted service, in
those days.

“Are you badly hurt, _mon ami_?” he asked, with a slight French accent.

“I don’t know,” said Adrian, faintly. “I feel stupid and weak, but
there is little pain. I think I have a cut on the head.”

De Cavannes advanced and examined the wound of the other with great
care, and nodded his head as if reassured.

“There is no great harm done,” he said. “The sword must have turned
in his hand, and your cap helped you. But you cannot go into battle
to-day. Your General has been superseded by the vain fool, Gates.
Let us depart. When the battle is over it will be time to see to our
purpose.”

Slowly he led the hussar away to his horse just as the first scattering
rifle-shots told that the contest was opening in earnest, and when the
volleys of musketry pealed out from the wheat-fields, Adrian Schuyler
was resting by a spring in the forest, while the beautiful Diana was
bathing his head and binding up his wounds.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is not our purpose to describe the battle of Saratoga in these
pages. That has been well done in the glowing pages of Irving, Headley,
and Lossing; and to attempt the task were but a repetition of their
words. Let the reader imagine the increasing thunder of answering
guns, the rapid roll of the volleys, and the charging cheer of the
English, Hessian, and Yankee volunteer, the field wrapped in bluish
clouds of smoke, where the fierce powder-smell stings the nostrils, and
the spiteful red flashes answer each other out of the haze, where the
bullets hiss and the round shot hum, while the grape-shot come by with
a heavy swish, and in the midst of all, wild Arnold rages up and down
like a lion at bay, driven to frenzy by his foes.

Alas for Arnold, that his greatest and most glorious field should have
been his last! Nevermore to direct the tide of victory thereafter, on
that stricken field he leaped to a light of glory, from whence, three
years later, he was to plunge into an abyss of infamy, covered with
the curses of honest men, his only hope of mercy lying in friendly
oblivion.

Let the field of Saratoga go by, with its well-known result, while
we turn to the few characters of our story around whom our plot has
revolved, and draw the shifting drama to a close.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE CAPITULATION.


In the room of a farm-house in the American lines near Saratoga, a
large gathering of officers was assembled. The scarlet of the British,
the dark green of the Hessian, and the homely blue and buff of the
American officers, mingled in friendly union for the first time.

The British officers looked gloomy and depressed, while the Americans
treated them with marked courtesy and consideration. A carriage rolled
up to the door of the farm-house, attended by a single dragoon, and a
lady with two little children was helped out by one of the American
officers, whose plain uniform bore no distinctive marks of rank.

This same officer had a peculiarly kind and benevolent expression on
his face. He took up the frightened little ones in his arms as readily
as if he had been their proper parent, kissed them affectionately,
and turned to welcome the mother, with all the kindly courtesy of a
gentleman of the old school.

The lady was the Baroness Reidesel, wife of the Hessian commander, and
her heart was at once won to the kind stranger.

“Oh, sir,” she said, impulsively, “you are very, very kind, to us who
have injured you so much.”

“Dear madam,” said the stranger, “that was but the fortune of war.
You are trembling. Do not be alarmed, I pray you. Probably it may
be somewhat embarrassing to you to be the only lady in such a large
company of gentlemen. Pray let me take you and the children to my tent,
where I will try to entertain you as best I can.”

The tears rushed to the eyes of the lady, as she said:

“Oh, sir, you must be a husband and father to show me so much kindness.
Tell me only to whom I am indebted.”

“The debt is mine, madam,” said the officer, politely. “I am General
Schuyler.”

And indeed it was that noblest of all heroes of the Revolution, after
Washington, the General to whose genius the capture of Burgoyne was
owing, and who was yet superseded in the hour of his triumph by the
intrigues of the unscrupulous Gates, around whose brows the laurels
were placed that really belonged to Schuyler. The baroness in her
memories has left us this little incident, illustrative of the real
nobility of the man.

In Schuyler’s tent, in which the baroness soon found herself, she was
greeted with respectful cordiality by a young lady, one of the most
beautiful creatures she had ever seen, who was introduced to her by the
General as “Mademoiselle Diane de Cavannes, the betrothed wife of my
cousin, Captain Schuyler.”

Sitting down to dinner, the baroness was soon after introduced to
a remarkably handsome young officer of hussars, as the cousin in
question, who entered while they were at table.

The conversation was carried on indifferently in English, German,
and French, for every one at table seemed to be a good linguist, and
before half an hour had passed the baroness felt as happy as if she had
been among intimate friends instead of being, as she really was in an
enemy’s camp, her husband and all his army prisoners.

While they were still at table, however, an incident occurred which
showed that war was not at rest entirely.

A disturbance was heard outside, some shouting, the reports of two
muskets, followed by the gallop of a horse near the tent.

Adrian Schuyler jumped up, at a signal from the General, and went
out to see what was the matter. The baroness full of vague fears, as
was natural to a lady in her lonely position, remained silent and
absent minded, in spite of the assiduous attentions of her host and
Mademoiselle de Cavannes to continue the conversation.

It was not long however before she was reassured by the entrance of
Adrian, who was accompanied by Baron Reidesel himself.

“Ah, _mon ami_,” exclaimed the anxious wife, “I feared some terrible
thing had happened to thee.”

The baron, after bowing to General Schuyler, whom he seemed to know,
explained the disturbance in a few words.

It seemed that Burgoyne and his principal officers had been dining with
Gates and his staff, and that all were somewhat the worse for wine, as
was common in those days of hard drinking.

That one of Burgoyne’s officers, who, it appeared, had held an
independent command among the rangers and Indians attached to the
expedition, had distinguished himself by the depths of his potations
which yet had no apparent effect on him save to make him more sullen
and reserved.

“He was always a surly fellow, that Butler,” said the baron; “and none
of us had liked him much, but he was a valuable officer at collecting
intelligence and planning surprises, and brought us in more news than
all our scouts, so Sir John tolerated him. Once or twice, I believe he
went out as a spy among your people, General. Pretty soon, a dispute
arose at table about that unfortunate affair of Miss McCrea, and
although both Generals tried to stop it, words waxed high. Then on a
sudden this Butler chimed in with the disputants in the most insulting
manner, and the end of it was that he gave the lie direct to Colonel
Morgan of the Rifles. One of Morgan’s officers, who sat next to Butler,
maddened by his potations, so far forgot himself as to strike Butler.
I shall never forget the scene that followed. Butler caught up a
carving-knife, and before any one could interfere he literally hacked
the other to pieces. Then with a savage curse, he flung the knife at
Gates, rushed from the house, knocking down two officers that tried
to stop him, as if they were children, sprung on the horse of Gates
himself, that stood by the door, and actually escaped. I tell you,
General, that sobered us all. Such an affair I never saw before, nor
hope to again. It has cured me of deep drinking for a long while.”

Even as he was finishing, a tall gentleman entered the tent, with
a hasty apology, went up to Schuyler and whispered in his ear. The
General looked grave and troubled but he answered, hastily:

“Certainly, count, certainly. I have no command here, and Adrian’s
duties are merely honorary. He can go.”

The Count de Cavannes, for it was none other, turned to Adrian Schuyler
and the young lady, who was known as Diane de Cavannes, and spoke
rapidly in French:

“My children, we must be in the saddle in an hour. The enemy of my
house is at large, and I have sworn never to rest till he is past doing
further mischief. Make your excuses and follow.”

Then, with a hurried bow to the rest of the company that told of the
highbred courtesy that even haste could not extinguish, the mysterious
count left the tent.

Baron Reidesel remained staring at the tent door in blank surprise
after his departure for some minutes. Then he turned to Schuyler and
asked, in a low voice:

“Excuse the question, Monsieur le General, but who is that tall
gentleman that has gone out?”

“The Count de Cavannes, father to this young lady,” said the General,
with a wave of his hand toward Mademoiselle.

“And, excuse me, does he hold a commission in your forces?”

“That is a question, baron, I can not in honor answer,” said the other,
gravely. “He is a true friend to our cause, I will say.”

“Eh, _mon Dieu_, it is explained, then,” muttered the baron. “He is an
agent of the Secret Service.”

Schuyler smiled but made no answer, and after fidgeting for some
minutes, the baron resumed:

“Will you excuse one more question?”

“Certainly, baron. If I can answer, I will.”

“The count, is he a--well, a conjuror.”

“I can answer that,” interposed Diana, who had listened to the colloquy
with an amused smile. “My father was a member of the French Academy of
Sciences, baron, and a pupil of the great Cagliostro himself. Have you
seen him before, that you ask?”

“_Mon Dieu_, Mademoiselle, I should think I had. Did he not enter the
quarters of Burgoyne himself in spite of his sentries and frighten us
all out of our senses, in the likeness of the king of evil himself?”

To his surprise, both Adrian and Diana burst into a hearty laugh, and
the former said:

“I do not wonder, baron. The count frightened me, once, in a way
I shall never forget. But now I know him, let me say that a more
honorable and braver gentleman never made use of the artifices of war
to deceive and entrap an enemy. Farewell, baron. The day will come when
you will know and respect De Cavannes, as I do.”

And he left the tent with Diana.




CHAPTER XX.

THE MOUNTAIN HOME.


Once more we are in Vermont, in the little valley scooped in the side
of the haunted hill. The rough stone cottage still stands in the middle
of the clearing, but it is no longer lonely. Several horses are tied to
the trees around, two of them jet-black, the rest caparisoned chargers,
in the midst of which the dapple-gray steed of Adrian Schuyler is
noticed. Several rangers were lounging about and in the hut, and the
smoke curls up from the wide chimney, showing blue amid the silvery
haze of Indian summer.

But a feature has been added to the scene since we were last there. It
is not the vivid dyes of autumn alone. The mountain sides glow with
crimson and gold, but that is not all.

The change consists in the fact that a lofty portal has been revealed,
cut into the precipice that borders one side of the glade, while
the cavern to which it gives entrance, instead of being dark, is
illuminated from within, and shows as bright as day.

No rough, damp cavern is it either, but a lofty apartment, the rocks
hidden with hangings of white and crimson cloth, while within,
gathered around a table, are General Schuyler, the Count de Cavannes,
Adrian, and Diana, at the close of a dinner, waited on by black
servants.

The General holds up his glass to the light and addresses De Cavannes,
saying, “Count, to your future life. May it be happier than the past.
It is time to redeem your promise, and tell your children all.”

The count’s face was grave and sad as he replied:

“Philip, you say true, but you can not tell what it is to me to harrow
up those recollections. Still, it must be done, for I have promised.”

Then turning to the young people, who were respectfully listening, he
addressed them:

“Adrian Schuyler, I have trusted thee as I never have trusted living
man since--since--something happened in my past life. What that was,
thou shalt learn. I trusted thee, not alone for thine honest face,
but for the name thou bearest. Thy cousin Philip and I were once
fellow-students and travelers, and I never knew one of his blood that
was a traitor. Diana, my daughter, thou hast, for many a year, held
more fear than love to thy father. Now thou shalt learn the cause that
drove me to the wilderness, and made of me, once as frank as the day,
the gloomy hater of my kind that I was before Adrian came to us, to
bring light from the outer world.”

Then, while his audience gathered round him, hanging with intense
interest on his words, the count told them the story of his life, which
we shall epitomize as briefly as possible.

Alphonse de Cavannes, count in France, baron in Germany, and even
duke of a small Italian province, was, at thirty, an object of envy
to half of Europe, for his riches and social position. Descended from
a family which united the best bloods of three kingdoms, he inherited
vast estates in all, greatest of all in France. Such was the frank
generosity of his nature, that his parasites were numerous, but to none
of them had he shown so much kindness as to a young English officer, a
scion of the noble house of Oxford, Pierce Harley by name. This youth
had been taken prisoner by the count in the famous battle of Fontenoy,
thirty-two years before the date of our tale, and his captor, instead
of leaving him, as he well might have done, to the fate of an officer
on parole, on scanty pay, had taken him into his own house in Paris,
and treated him with the kindness of a brother. He had been induced to
this course chiefly from the finding that Harley was a distant relation
of the young Countess de Cavannes, who was, by birth, English, and
whom her husband positively adored. Young Harley, then a handsome,
athletic young fellow, had professed himself extremely grateful for
this kindness. Being a younger son, without fortune, the friendship
of the great French lord was of much value to him. When peace was
concluded, moreover, instead of allowing Harley to go back to England,
the generous count insisted on his resigning his commission, and
remaining in France as steward of all De Cavannes’ estates, everywhere
treated as the trusted friend of their owner. Harley accepted it, and
for twelve years occupied the post, doing exactly as he pleased. It
was during this period that Schuyler, then on a visit to Europe, met
his old fellow-student, and witnessed, with amazement, the splendor
of his establishment. The count was then deep in those expensive
scientific experiments to which he owed all his subsequent resources as
a conjuror and magician, in company with the celebrated or notorious
Count Cagliostro. It was Schuyler who induced the count to pay a visit
to America, and Harley managed all the details of the expedition, which
was made in princely style. On arrival in America, De Cavannes was
so much charmed with the beauty and grandeur of the scenery, that he
decided that he would buy an estate near Albany, and spend at least a
portion of his time there.

It was only then, after twelve years of apparently faithful service
on the part of Harley, that De Cavannes discovered that all was not
right in his affairs. Expecting to be able to raise money to purchase
in America by a mortgage on his French estates, he found to his
surprise and dismay, that every acre of land which he held in Europe
was already heavily incumbered. Schuyler, whose keen, solid intellect
had from the first led him to suspect maladministration on account of
the reckless extravagance he had witnessed, persuaded his friend to go
to Europe and make a secret investigation of his affairs in company
with himself, leaving Harley in America to put the Albany estate in
condition. To do this, the generous American himself secretly advanced
the purchase-money for the estate, and undertook the task of lulling
Harley’s suspicions, which the open-hearted count was hardly capable
of doing, in the first revulsion of suspicion. To be brief, the scheme
was carried out. The countess was left in America under charge of the
suspected agent, along with the baby Diana, who had been born a few
days previous to the discovery of Harley’s monetary faithlessness. Of
any thing worse than reckless incapacity the count never suspected him.

The friends went to Europe and found that the trusted friend and petted
steward, Pierce Harley, had not only robbed his benefactor for his
own benefit, but had actually forged his name to mortgages, so that
two-thirds of the count’s income was swallowed up in paying interest on
loans of which he had never reaped any benefit.

De Cavannes, once undeceived, was a changed man. With noble magnanimity
he would not take advantage of the people who had been victimized by
the forgeries. Neither would he continue to pay the interest. He took
a middle course, conveying all his estates to a board of his creditors
to apply the proceeds to the extinction of the principal of these
sums that he had never received, and reserving to himself only enough
to repay the generous Schuyler and to supply a year’s expenses for a
small household in America. Then he took passage back, and arrived at
Albany with Schuyler to find the country in a state of war, and Howe’s
expedition to Ticonderoga on foot.

Full of fury at the recent discoveries, he summoned Harley to his
presence, informed him in a few stinging words of his estimate of his
character, then bid him draw and defend himself. To his surprise,
Harley, usually a man of obstinate courage, turned pale, and without
a word fled from his presence, while the count, too proud to pursue a
wretch so sordid as he deemed him, contented himself with throwing a
drinking-cup after him with a force that cut the villain’s head as he
went. Then the disdainful noble went to seek his wife, whom he had not
yet seen.

Then, and then only, did he sound the last depth of Harley’s perfidy.
The false steward was discovered in the countess’ chamber, and she was
hanging on his neck, weeping bitterly while Harley rained kisses on her
lips!

Here the count stopped, and his paleness became livid, while his voice
sunk to a grating whisper.

“I killed Diana. Do you blame me? I would have killed him, but he left
again. I could not let _both_ escape.”

There was a dead silence in the room as he paused. A moment later, he
said, in a quiet almost indifferent tone:

“That night the Indians burned my house to the ground and scalped me,
leaving me for dead, and I recognized Pierce Harley for their leader.
He had the better of me at every point.”

Again there was a dead silence, again the count spoke.

“You found me, Philip, and nursed me to life. You do not wonder that
when I recovered I vowed vengeance on Pierce Harley and all his crew
of red devils. I have kept the vow well. Twenty long years have I
hung on the trail of the Mohawks, now in one place, now in another. I
found this cave first, and afterwards the one near Oriskany. The idea
struck me that by keeping the secret of the caves and working on the
superstition of the Indians, I might acquire a double power over them.
I hid the entrance to this, and no one knew where the other was. It was
your help, Philip, that supplied me with the means to personate the
demon and frighten the savages with red fire. That and my own activity
and caution, sharpened tenfold by woodcraft, taught me how to make
myself dreaded and shunned by every warrior of this nation.

“But in all that time I never could find Pierce Harley, though I sought
him everywhere. Diana shared my solitude after her fourteenth year, and
no one in the convent-school at Montreal dreamed, when Mademoiselle
De Cavannes left them a finished pupil, that she went to the woods to
share the trials of a moody, misanthropical outcast, whose bidding she
obeyed with fear and trembling, but whose secrets she kept with the
true fidelity of a daughter. You little thought, Adrian Schuyler, when
you met the simple-seeming girl in rustic tunic, that her innocent air
was really a piece of consummate art, and that your cousin Philip knew
the whole secret. The bear and the tame deer, the Spanish hounds, the
voices in the air, the supernatural figures, they were all very awful
to you at first, were they not? But, now that you know all, you do not
wonder that I would not trust you before Bennington. I sent you my
horse on purpose to test your truth, and you proved a true Schuyler.
May you be happy with Diana.”

The count had hardly finished his story when there was a noise without.
He started up.

“I thought so,” he exclaimed, “the scouts have tracked him to earth,
and are driving him hither.”

The next moment a horseman dashed up to the cave, leaped off his beast,
and strode in, bearing a long rifle.

It was the dreaded Butler.

Behind him, at a distance, rode up a dozen rangers.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE PARTISAN’S REVELATION.


The gloomy-looking partisan crossed the threshold, grounded the butt of
his rifle, and faced the count without a word.

De Cavannes rose to his feet, and his eye gleamed, as he said:

“I knew you would come. After all you are no coward, if you are a
villain, Pierce.”

The partisan laughed sardonically.

“Do you render that much justice to me, Alphonse? You are growing
rational. I remember when you would not hear a word, and murdered an
innocent woman in your frenzy.”

The count shook his head, and all the fire died out of his eyes.

“Pierce Harley,” he said, “if you could prove that, no living man would
be more glad than I to spend the rest of my life in the torments of
hell on earth, that I might see her once more, to ask her forgiveness
one moment. But it is useless. Traitor and false friend, who bit the
hand that fed you, it is vain to defend her from what I know.”

“Let it pass then,” said Butler--or Harley as he must now be
called--gloomily. “Your words are true as regards me. You can not
believe what I say about her, of course. Let it pass.”

“Tell me then,” said the count, doubtfully, “why you came here.”

“To die,” was the laconic reply.

De Cavannes laughed scornfully.

“Have you realized that? Why did you not come before? You knew I was
not dead, though you once thought I was. The day of Saratoga told you
that I was no ghost, if you half suspected before. Did you fear to meet
me, that you waited till my rangers drove you from your hut, and chased
you here?”

“I did,” said Harley, with the same sullen manner.

“I wish you had come alone,” said the count, in his grand manner. “It
would have saved me the trouble of pitying you, for I do not care to
kill a man that fears death.”

Again Harley laughed sardonically.

“You are wrong, Alphonse, as wrong as you once were about your wife. I
don’t fear you. I waited to see if you hated me enough to take trouble
for my death.”

“And you are satisfied that you deserve it?” said the count, gravely.

“I suppose so, according to one law,” returned Harley, coldly. “By the
law of vengeance you have your rights. Take them. I’m weary of life.”

“Pierce Harley,” said the count, solemnly, “my men are round you, and
you are doomed to die. In the presence of God, tell the truth. What had
I done to you that you should turn traitor to me as you did, trying
your best to ruin one who never done you aught but benefits.”

Harley turned his eyes gloomily round the apartment till they rested on
the lovely face of Diana. Then he said:

“You see that girl. As she looks now, thirty-five years ago looked her
mother, and I loved her before she ever saw you. You have your answer.”

“This is no answer,” said the count, fiercely. “What had I done to you
to provoke such treason?”

“I loved Diana Harley, fool. She was my cousin by blood, and I loved
her before you saw her. I was poor, you were rich. She went to France,
secretly betrothed to me, and she broke her troth, forced to it by
Oxford, her father. You knew she did not love _you_. What do you
Frenchmen care for love in a young wife? She loved me first, and I
loved her. If I had not, do you think I could have forgiven her the
wrong she did me? I did forgive her, when I saw her in Paris, but I
swore revenge on you and I have kept my oath.”

The count had listened to the other with iron composure, but with
perfect courtesy, not seeking to interrupt him in any manner. When
Harley had finished there was a short silence, broken by the count.

“Then I am to understand, monsieur, that you do me the honor to avow
that you sought my house for the deliberate purpose of destroying my
happiness and ruining my wife.”

“The man that says that Diana Harley was ruined by me, lies,” said
the partisan, in harsh tones. “I loved her, but you--curse you--had
her--she was your wife. From that moment I swore to kill _you_, but
nothing would have tempted me to stain _her_ by so much as one word a
maiden or chaste wife might not hear.”

De Cavannes, for the first time looked incredulous, and Harley,
noticing the look, laughed a strange, hollow, despairing laugh.

“You Frenchmen could not understand that of a cold, brutal Englishman,
could you? Fool; in the apathetic seeming hearts of the North, love
burns with a fervor you mincing dancing-masters never dreamed of, as
white as the furnace flame that melts steel and as pure of dross. I
tell you I _loved_ Diana. In that love an angel might have gloried.
It was pure at least. If I sinned it was like Lucifer, not like your
gentlemen of the court, who counted every woman fair prey.”

Here, for the first time, the count interposed.

“Stop, monsieur; you know better than that with me. Besides, you who
boast of your purity in love, what meant that scene I witnessed, Diana
in your arms before my very face? Ha, monsieur, does that make you
wince?”

The iron firmness which had so far distinguished Harley was indeed
giving way to all seeming. The strong man trembled violently, and
turned a gaze, half piteous half fierce on the second Diana, whose
marvelous likeness to the first had been declared. Then he suddenly
ground his teeth and turned on the count with a ferocity that bordered
on insanity, while he burst out:

“Ay, glory in it, Alphonse. I ruined you, and you detected me. My
defeat and disgrace were complete, and in that disgrace she pitied
me and allowed her long-smothered love to burst forth. And I, weak
fool that I was, lost control of myself when I saw her tears. In one
mad moment I told her all my long love, and that moment was her last.
You saw us, and stabbed her. Do you know why I did not kill you then,
Alphonse de Cavannes? Because you would have gone to meet her. You were
a noble man, then. Now, you have stained your hands with blood, and are
doomed. I hate you now, as I always did. Now take my curse and speed to
hottest hell, to meet me when I come!”

As he spoke he flung his rifle into the palm of his hand with a clash,
and the flash and report instantly followed.

That moment would have been the last of the Count de Cavannes, but for
the promptitude of Adrian Schuyler. The active hussar had been watching
the partisan keenly, and in the nick of time his saber left its sheath
striking up the barrel of the piece, to be plunged the next instant
into the very heart of Pierce Harley.

Without a groan, the grim partisan dropped dead, as Diana threw her
arms round her father’s deliverer with a shriek.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is but little more to add to our tale now.

The reader will comprehend how Adrian, meeting De Cavannes and Diana at
Bennington, and taken into the confidence of the former, had assisted
him in the ghostly manifestations in the cavern by the aid of De
Cavannes’ thorough knowledge of the locality and ropes fixed to some of
the stalactites for the purpose of executing their aërial flight over
the lake, shining in suits covered with phosphorus.

It only remains to add that Adrian and Diana were married the year
after, and departed with the count to Europe. By this time the count’s
estates had paid off their incumbrances by the rents in the course of
twenty years, and De Cavannes was once more a rich man.

He was one of the few nobles of France who took the popular side along
with Lafayette during the French Revolution, and lived to see Adrian
a General under the Empire. But all his subsequent fortunes never
wiped out the memories of the past, and he often recounted to his
grandchildren the pranks he played the savages in America under the
name of BLACK NICK.


THE END.




  FOOTNOTES:

  [1] Now Manchester.

  [2] Historically correct.




Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.