The night was bright with the moonlight, and we soon saw the blaze of the British camp-fires again. We rode slowly towards them, and at last stopped at a distance of several hundred yards.

"They should have a picket near here," said Wildfoot, "and I fancy it is over yonder in the shadow."

He pointed towards a clump of trees on our right, and Marcel, whose eyes were wonderfully keen, announced that he saw there the color of uniforms.

"Six men are in the group," said Wildfoot, a moment later, "and they appear to be resting, which is wrong. No British picket should be taking its ease in a campaign like this. We will furnish them some excuses for being on watch."

He gave word to two of his men, who lifted their rifles and fired towards the group under the trees. I heard the bullets cutting through the leaves in the few minutes of intense silence that followed. Then a great clamor arose, the noise of many voices, a drum beating, and scattered shots returning our fire. We saw soldiers leap up in the camp and run to arms.

We were far enough away to be hidden from the sight of our enemies, and we rode swiftly on, leaving the clamor behind us. It was a huge camp, spreading out for miles, and partly surrounded by woods, which always make easy the approach of a concealed foe. Yet there was not enough open space in the vicinity for the whole British army, and their commanders were not to blame.

Wildfoot still led the way, appearing to know the country thoroughly. He divided our little force, presently, into three troops, naming a place at which we were to reunite some hours later. He placed trusted leaders over the first two troops, and took the third himself, Marcel and I being included in it. We rode through the deep woods, the twigs whipping our faces, but always ahead of us was the large dark figure of Wildfoot, horse and man passing on silently, like a ghostly centaur.

In a half-hour we stirred up another picket, which saw us in the moonlight and fired their bullets so close to our heads that I felt anxious. But they were only four men, and we soon sent them running back to their army. Then an entire company came out to beat up the woods for us, but we were gone again, flitting on to new mischief. Wildfoot was an expert at this business. Anybody could see it at a glance. He knew when to do a thing, and when not to do it, which comes very near to being supreme wisdom. He knew whether to attack or to wait, whether to ride on or to stay, and the entire British right flank was soon in an uproar, their musketeers returning the fire of an enemy whom they could not see, and cavalry galloping through the forests after the foe whom they could not overtake. While Wildfoot led us often into danger, he always led us out again, and we continued our circle of the British camp, all our horsemen unharmed.

"Isn't this glorious?" said Wildfoot to me presently. "Such nights as these a man remembers long."

I gazed at him in wonder, but there was no sign of affectation in his voice or eye. I knew that there was none in his heart either. But I looked at my torn clothing, felt my bruised face, where the twigs had struck like switches, stretched my muscles, sore from so much riding, and replied,—

"If I were the British commander, Captain Wildfoot, and I could catch you, I would hang you to the top of the tallest tree in this forest."

"I admit that it is somewhat annoying," he replied, smiling broadly at what impressed him as a great compliment; "but, as I told you, we must not let the enemy dwell in peace. If we can disturb his sleep, impair his digestion, and upset his nerves, he won't be enthusiastic when he goes into real battle."

A half-hour later we were dashing through the woods pursued by a formidable company, entirely too large for us to oppose, but again we were unharmed. In truth, the darkness—for the moon had faded somewhat—was our protector. The enemy could not see to hit us with the musket-bullets, and presently we gathered together again in the friendly shadows, with the hostile troop left far behind.

"I wish I knew where General Clinton himself lies," said Wildfoot, who was ambitious. "I should like to send a bullet through his tent, not to hurt him, but merely to let him know that we are here."

His face was full of longing, but there was no way for us to discover or approach General Clinton's tent, and I feared that his desire must go unfulfilled. Nevertheless, his zest and energy did not decrease, and he seemed bent upon completing the circuit of the British army with his irritating methods. I was worn to the bone, but in spite of it I caught some of Wildfoot's militant enthusiasm, and aided him to the utmost.

Clouds obscured the moon again, and the added darkness helped us. After midnight we found a company camped on a hill-side on the fringe of the army, but a little farther from the main body than usual. The tethered horses grazed on the grass near by, and I was willing to swear that I knew several of them.

"Yes," said Wildfoot, at whom I looked questioningly, "that's the company with which you rode the night you and Miss Desmond brought us the warning. I have no doubt that your friend Belfort, who was exchanged for you, and other friends of yours, too, are there. We will rouse them up a bit."

He signalled to his men, and a half-dozen bullets clipped the grass among the tents. The return fire came in an instant, and it was much fiercer than we had expected. The musket-balls whistled around us, and two men and a horse were grazed. We sent back a second volley, and the British, rushing to their horses, galloped after us, at least a hundred strong. Away we crashed through the woods, expecting to shake them off in a few minutes, as we had rid ourselves of the others, but they managed to keep us in sight and hung on to the chase.

"We must discourage such enthusiasm," said Wildfoot, and he gave orders to our men, who had reloaded their rifles, to fire again, cautioning them to take good aim. Two troopers fell to our volley, and others seemed to be hurt. The pursuit slackened for a few minutes, but was resumed to the accompaniment of scattering rifle-shots that urged us to renewed speed. Three of our men were wounded, though slightly, and the affair was growing decidedly warm.

But the darkness of night and our knowledge of the country gave us a vast advantage, which we used to good purpose. Wildfoot ordered us to curve farther away from the British camp, and in five minutes we entered the deeper forest. Marcel and I were thankful now that Wildfoot had made us take the horses. All the men were specially well mounted, in truth, on horses trained for such work, and our pursuers began to diminish in number, the slower ones dropping off. They decreased rapidly from a hundred to fifty, and then to twenty-five, and then to less. But a small group clung persistently to us until at last Wildfoot laid a restraining hand on the rein of his horse, and said: "Not more than seven or eight men are following us now. We must show them that they are rash."

We stopped and raised our rifles, all except Marcel and I, who had none, pistols taking their place. Our pursuers were too eager and too hot with the chase to notice instantly that we were no longer fleeing, and dashed at us like knights riding down an antagonist at a tournament. The man at their head was Belfort,—I saw him plainly,—who never lacked bravery and zeal, however unlikable he may have been otherwise. I had spared his life once, and I would not fire at him now, but of course I was not responsible for what the others might do.

Our weapons flashed, and two of the pursuing horsemen fell. One horse also went down. The unhurt, warned by this terrible volley that they had come too far, whirled about and fled—all except two.

The two who did not flee were a wounded man who had fallen from his saddle and the one whose horse had been killed. Both wore the uniform of officers.

The dismounted man might have darted among the trees and eluded us easily, but he did not run. Instead he raised up his wounded companion, who began to limp away. I saw that the latter was Belfort, but I judged that he was not badly hurt, the blood on his coat indicating that the bullet had struck him in the shoulder. The moonlight fell on the face of the man who led him, and we saw that it was not a man at all, merely a fair-haired English boy of seventeen or eighteen years. He put his arm under Belfort's shoulder, and the two walked towards one of the horses that stood near with empty saddle.

"Surrender!" shouted Wildfoot.

The boy turned towards us, and his face showed defiance. Then he shook his fist, and walked on with his comrade towards his horse.

We held the lives of both at our mercy, and the boy probably knew it, but he never flinched. We might fire or we might not; but he did not intend to desert a comrade or surrender. One of our men raised his rifle, but Wildfoot struck it down.

"There is some English mother whom we can spare!" he said.

So we sat there on our horses until the boy helped Belfort into the saddle, and climbed up behind him. Then he looked at us intently for a moment, and raised his hand. I thought he was going to shake his fist in our faces again; but the hand went to his head, and he gave us a military salute. Then, with his wounded comrade, he rode away towards the British army.

"A fine spirit and fine manners," said Wildfoot.

We, too, rode off in the forest, and I was very glad that the ranger had spared the boy. He had given me my life once, but then he knew that I was not an Englishman.

There was no cessation of the work for hours, and we continued our circuit, stirring up alarm after alarm, Wildfoot, sleepless and untiring, at our head. At last when day was bright, and our three bands had reunited, he looked at the rising sun and said, with a deep sigh of regret:—

"I'm afraid we'll have to quit and go back to General Washington's camp."

"Don't you think that we've had rather an active night?" I asked.

"It's been a fair average night," he replied.

Such was the man.

When the sun was well risen, we were riding into camp.