The scene of our story changes to the vicinity of the Hudson, to which the eyes of millions were now turned as the theatre of approaching events, on which hung, perhaps, the great issue of the American revolution. Although both parties seemed to look upon the matter at stake as one of immense magnitude, yet far different were the views and feelings which, at this time, pervaded the two opposing armies. The British, flushed by their successes, and confident in that strength before which every opposing obstacle had thus far given way, were looking down with little other than absolute contempt on the American forces in their front, believing them wholly incapable, either from numbers or courage, of opposing any serious resistance to their march, when they chose to move forward. And here thus lay their proud and infatuated chief for weeks, dreaming of coronets, frittering away the time in feasting with his officers, and indulging himself and them in all the follies which characterized their gay and licentious camp. On the other hand, the Americans, deeply sensible of the consequence of suffering their enemies to effect their contemplated junction at Albany, were vigilant, active, and determined. Though firmly resolved to dispute the way of the invader to the death when they must, they yet preferred, for a while, the policy of embarrassing and impeding him, rather than openly exposing themselves to his attacks. Whole brigades were therefore employed in the work of destroying the bridges, blocking up the roads with fallen trees, and putting every possible obstruction in the way of his advance, so that his delay, where he now lay at Fort Ann, might be protracted till a sufficient force could be gathered to meet him with a more reasonable hope of success.

And every hour that hope waxed stronger and stronger. Every day brought fresh accessions of strength to their self-devoted bands, and every gale wafted to their gladdened ears the sounds of the warlike preparations of an aroused and indignant people gathering from afar to the rescue; and they began to breathe more freely while they thought, as with trembling solicitude they still did, of the fearful meeting that must now soon follow.

At the time which we have selected for opening the scene that forms the next connecting link in the chain of our tale although the road had been at length opened, and a few detachments thrown forward to the Hudson, the main part of the British army still lay at Fort Ann; where their long lines of tents, marked, at intervals, by the colors of the different regiments flying from their slender flagstaffs, were now seen stretching, a city of canvas, over the plain. A little apart from this imposing array stood a small number of dwelling-houses of different sizes, irregularly scattered along on both sides of the road towards the south, over the largest of which floated the broad British flag, proclaiming it the head-quarters of the commander-in-chief. The next, in size and commodiousness, among these various structures,—all now occupied by the general officers and other favored personages of the army,—was a large, low farmhouse, which the intermingling devices of the British and Hanoverian flags, conspicuously displayed from the roof, denoted to be the quarters of General Reidesel, suite, and well-known family. This last building seemed now to be the principal point of attraction. Gayly dressed officers and ladies were seen entering the doors, or standing inside at the open windows; while the sounds of the familiar greetings, lively sallies, and merry laughter of the assembled and assembling company, sufficiently indicated the convivial character of the scene about to be enacted within. Let us enter. Around a long and richly-furnished table, in the principal apartment, were just seated those who deemed themselves the elite of that boastful army. Its notorious chief, the weak and wise, vain-glorious and energetic Burgoyne, occupied the post of honor, at the head, and the fair hostess, the amiable, learned, and vivacious Countess of Reidesel, the foot of the table: while, at the sides, were ranged, according to the prevailing notions of precedence, the variously-ranked individuals composing the rest of the company, among whom, with other officers of less note, were Generals Reidesel and Frazier, Major Ackland and his devoted wife, together with several Americans, including the elated Esquire Haviland and his beautiful daughter. The latter who, sorely against her inclinations, had been prevailed on, or rather constrained, by her father to attend him to the entertainment, was seated by the side of Lady Ackland, to whom she seemed shrinkingly to cling as a sort of shield against the fierce glances she was compelled to encounter from the eyes of those whom it was there counted treason to repulse.

The feast proceeded. With the constant bandying of compliment, joke, and repartee, among the merry and self-satisfied lordlings who assumed the right of engrossing the conversation, course after course came and passed in rapid succession, till a sufficient variety of viands and other substantial esculents had been served to warrant the introduction of the lighter delicacies of the dessert. But still there seemed to be a saving of appetite, a looking for some expected dish that had not yet made its appearance, on the part of several of the guests, and especially on that of the pompous votary of Mars, who had been installed master of the ceremonies, and who at length ventured to say,—

“I had looked, my lady hostess, to have seen, ere this, among your many other delectables, the fulfilment of your ladyship's promise gracing the table, in the shape of the blackbird pie, wherewith we were to be regaled, at your entertainment, if your polite note of invitation was rightly read and interpreted.”

“O, the blackbird pie!” replied the countess, with a sprightly air and a charming touch of the German brogue. “I was waiting to be reminded of that; for there is a condition, which I wish to propose to your excellency, before the promised extra can make its appearance.”

“Ah! What is that, my incomparable cateress?” asked the former.

“Why, only that you carve and serve the pie to the company yourself, mon general,” archly replied the countess.

“A challenge to your chivalry, general, which no true knight can refuse to accept,” cried Frazier and others.

“I yield me, and accede to the condition,” said Burgoyne, gracefully waving his jewelled hand, and joining in the general laugh.

“It is well,” said the countess, with a finely-assumed air of mock gravity, as she raised her exquisite little table bell, which now, under her rapidly-plied fingers, sent its sharp jingle through the house.

The next moment, a liveried servant, whose countenance seemed slyly gleaming with some suppressed merriment, was seen advancing with a broad, deep dish, tastefully crowned by the swelling crust of snow-white pastry, which tightly enclosed the supposed contents beneath.

At a motion of the indicating finger of the hostess, the tempting dish was brought forward, and carefully placed on the table before the many-titled carver, amid a shower of compliments to the distinguished artificer of so fine an edible structure, from him and many others of the admiring company. The general now rose, and, intent only on a dexterous performance of the duties of his new vocation, gave a preliminary flourish of knife and fork, and dashed into the middle of the pie; when lo! through the rent thus made in the imprisoning crust, out flew half a score of live blackbirds, which, fluttering up and scattering over the dodging heads of the astonished guests, made for the open windows, and escaped, with loud chirping cries, to their native meadows! At first, a slight exclamation from the gentlemen, a half shriek from the ladies, then a momentary pause, and then one universal burst of uproarious laughter, followed this strange denouement of the little plot of the playful countess. She, it appeared, had engaged a fowler to bring her a couple of dozens of blackbirds, which, by a net, he had taken, and brought to her alive; when, keeping part as they were, she contrived up the scheme to amuse and surprise her guests here described, and, slaying the rest, made of them a veritable pie, that was now brought forward, and partaken, with great gusto, by the delighted company.

At length the cloth was removed, and the table replenished with bottles and glasses. Then followed the usual round of toasts—“the health of the king,”—“the invincibility of British arms,”—“success to the present expedition,”—and, with many a deriding epithet, “confusion to the rebels and their ragged army.”

“Fill, gentlemen,” said Burgoyne, after the subjects above named had been sufficiently exhausted—“fill up your glasses once more; for, in descanting on the public responsibilities and glory of the soldier, let us not be unmindful of those private felicities which are to reward his prowess. I give you,” he added, with a significant glance at our heroine—“I give you, ladies and gentlemen, the health and happiness of our two loyal American officers, Colonel Peters and Captain Jones, the prospective bridegrooms of the double wedding of to-morrow, extremely regretting that both of the fair participants of the happy occasion, instead of one, are not here to give the beautiful response of their blushes to the sentiment.”

As the lively applause with which this toast was received and drank was subsiding, the ladies, to the great relief of the astonished and confused Miss Haviland, now rose and retired to another apartment. Here, pleading some excuse for an immediate departure, Sabrey hurried out through a back way, and escaped unperceived to her father's quarters, a small adjoining cottage, where she had lodged since his arrival in camp, and where she now secluded herself, to endeavour to fathom the plot which the unexpected and unwarranted announcement just indirectly made, together with some other circumstances of recent occurrence, plainly told was in progress to in snare her.

But it may here be necessary, for a clear understanding of some things which have preceded, and others which may follow, to revert briefly to the experience of the luckless maiden since placed in her present uncongenial and embarrassing position.

When Miss Haviland, on the termination of her compulsory journey, arrived at the outposts of the British army, she was conducted, by the order of some one evidently apprised of her coming immediately to her father's quarters. The old gentleman, at the somewhat awkward meeting that now took place between them, seemed both surprised and gratified at seeing her there; and though his manner betrayed a sort of guilty embarrassment arising, perhaps, from the consciousness of his former harshness to her, he yet at once, and pointedly, disclaimed having had any agency in her abduction, which he laid to the chances of war; to which, he contended, her perverse and unadvised conduct had been the means of exposing her. Peters, also, who soon made his appearance, joined in the disclaimer; and tendering some empty apologies for what had happened, which, he said, grew out of the mistake of a subordinate officer in construing an order in relation to taking hostages from the enemy, in certain cases, offered to convey her back, if she chose it, as soon as found consistent with her safety. The offer, however, was never repeated; and his own conduct very soon belied his assertions, and convinced her of the truth of her suspicions from the first, that he was the sole instigator of the outrage she had received, and that it was still his purpose to detain her and keep her in a position which would enable him the more effectually to prosecute his designs; for although in the few formal calls he continued to make at the house, he never pressed his suit, but seemed rather to avoid the subject, as if determined to afford her no opportunity to repeat her former refusals, she yet quickly perceived that he was busy at his intrigues to bring about, by the agency of others and by secret management, what by himself, or by any open and honorable means, he despaired of accomplishing. All this, from day to day, unfolded itself in the renewed importunities and reproaches of her father, the added entreaties of Jones, the lover of Miss McRea, then soon expected in the British camp to be married, in the reports which had been put in circulation to place her in a false light,—that of a perverse and coquettish girl,—in the efforts made to force her into social parties, where the opinions of all were obviously forestalled, and especially in the contrived introductions she was compelled to undergo to those who had evidently been enlisted as intercessors, among whom were some whose ambiguous conduct often greatly annoyed, and, at times, even filled her bosom with perplexity and alarm.

Such was the position of the unhappy girl at the time of her reluctant attendance as one of the guests of the merry party we have described. Although annoyed, sickened, and disgusted at what she had daily witnessed, and vexed and indignant at the contemptible artifices and intrigues of Peters, which, however intended, were beginning to be the means of exposing her to new trials, yet, till what took place at that party, she had entertained no serious apprehension that any attempt would be made to coerce her into a marriage which she had so decidedly repudiated.

But the announcement which had just been so strangely made coming as it did from so powerful a personage, and one, at the same time, whose equivocal behavior, when she had casually met him, had excited her deepest aversion, now gave her to understand that such an attempt was indeed about to be made by the assumed arbiters of her fate, and that her resistance to the contemplated scheme, should she be able to make one against the overawing influence that was about to be brought to bear upon her, and even her acquiescence, she feared, was to be followed by persecutions, from the thought of which she shrunk with dismay. She might have taken that announcement, perhaps, as a mere ruse, as in part it really was, got up to place her in a predicament in which most females would yield rather than become the principal actor in the scene that would follow further resistance; or she might have viewed the whole as a contemptible fabrication, but for a circumstance of that morning's occurrence. Captain Jones had called and apprised her that he was about sending an escort to Fort Edward for his betrothed, informed her that the next morning was appointed for his wedding, and concluded by making his last appeal to induce her to consent to be united to Peters at the same time.

And it was this occurrence, in connection with the former, that had so thoroughly alarmed her.

While pondering on the means and chances of escaping the threatened destiny, she perceived from her window that the company at Reidesel's had broken up, and were scattering to their respective quarters. And presently her father entered her room, and after announcing that he had been honored by the commander-in-chief with a mission to Skenesboro', from which he should not be able to return till late at night, presented her a sealed billet, and immediately departed. With a trembling hand she opened the suspected missive and read,—

“Miss Haviland will pardon the mistake involved in the sentiment delivered at Lady Reidesel's table. Its author, however, cannot but think that the full arrangement which he had supposed to have been already settled may still be effected in season. And he therefore proposes, if Miss H. will permit, a call for friendly intercession, at twilight this evening.”

With a flushed and flashing countenance the offended maiden instantly sprang to her feet, and paced the room several minutes in silent agitation. Her naturally mild spirit was at length evidently aroused for some decided action; and the manner in which it was to be commenced appeared soon to be determined in her mind.

“Ay, and the step, as bold as it may be, shall first be taken,” she said, as, preparing to leave the house, her burning thoughts began to press for utterance. “Ay, if it will not avail me, in bringing aid to escape from this den of iniquity, or protection to remain, it shall, at least, serve as a proclamation of villany, which shall yet be heard in every house and hamlet of the American people!”

The next moment she was in the street; and, with hurried step making her way to General Reidesel's quarters. Instantly seeking a private interview with the readily assenting countess, she frankly and without reserve told the whole story of her wrongs, and implored assistance in escaping the toils that had been spread for her, or, at least, the protecting shield of an influence which should enable her to withstand them. And the effect of her forceful recital soon showed her that she had not over-estimated the discernment and magnanimity of the noble lady she was addressing.

“Well, that is right, my bonny rebel, as they call you!” said the countess, encouragingly. “And it is the spirit in a woman which I like, and which I will have no hand in repressing. Yes, I see clearly, now, what I half suspected before—the man who had you brought here, where he could more surely noose you, is repugnant even to the misery; and some of those he has been fool enough to enlist as intercessors, are still more dreaded. Ah! wicked, wicked Briton! But, do you know, he is king here and that it is treason to talk, and worse treason to try to thwart him?”

“I have greatly feared so, my lady.”

“What, then, do you propose to do, wherein I could befriend you?”

“Leave the army before night.”

“Have you a carriage at command, and a protector?”

“I have, strictly speaking, neither, madam.”

“Then how can you go?”

“On foot, and alone, unless I chance to engage one to attend me in the character of a servant.”

“You are a brave one, my young lady. But they will be likely to detain you at the outposts.”

“I had supposed so, and therefore came here with the hope that, after you had heard my story, you might be moved to prevail on your husband to give me a pass.”

“O girl, girl! No, no, he would not dare to do it, after finding out the cause, which he must first know,” exclaimed the lady, in a tone of kindly remonstrance. “He would dare do no such thing. But I would, in such a case; indeed I would! And, stay, let me see!” she continued, rising and opening the general's desk. “Here are several passes which he keeps for occasions of hurry, all signed off and ready, except inserting the name of the bearer. O, what shall I do? I am tempted to write your name in one, and trust to your honor and shrewdness to shield me, in case of your failure, from exposure and blame.”

“Will your hand-writing be acknowledged, madam?”

“O, yes, I don't hesitate on that account; for I often fill up the general's passes under his direction.”

“O, then, dear madam, as I know you would do by a daughter, do by me—trust to my discretion, and hesitate no longer.”

The good-hearted countess soon yielded, and our heroine, with tears of gratitude, mutely imprinted a farewell kiss on her cheek, and departed with the coveted pass in her pocket.

When Miss Haviland reached her chamber, she seated herself by an open, but partially curtained window, where, unseen her self, she could easily note what was passing in the street below, to which her attention seemed somewhat anxiously directed. She had been but a few minutes at her post of observation, before she was apprised, by the hooting of boys, and the gibes and laughter of the idling soldiers, with whom the street, at this hour, was commonly thronged, that some unusual spectacle was approaching. And peering forward through the folds of the curtains, she beheld, amidst a slowly-advancing crowd, a meanly clad, simple looking country youth wearing a ragged broad-brim, and mounted on an unsightly, donkey-like beast, whose long tail and mane were stuck full of briers, and whose hair, lying in every direction, seemed besmeared with mange and dirt; all combining to give both horse and rider a most ungainly and poverty-struck appearance. The fellow was trying to peddle apples, which he carried in an old pair of panniers swung across his pony's back and which seemed to be bought mostly by the boys, who with them were pelting him and his cringing pony, to the great mirth of the bystanders. While the crowd, and the object of their attention, were thus engaged, at a little distance, an officer, who was passing, paused near the house, and, calling a couple of soldiers to his side, said to them,—

“Keep your eyes on that fellow with the scurvy pony yonder, and if you notice any thing suspicious in his movements, arrest him. It appears to me I have seen him in almost too many places to-day.”

An expression of concern passed over Sabrey's countenance, as she heard these words, and she gave an involuntary glance to the object thus pointed out, who, as she thought from his appearance, had also heard the order himself, or at least guessed its import. But instead of making off, as she expected, he spurred up his pony, and, coming directly up to the officer, asked him, with an air of confiding simplicity, to buy some of his apples, which he said were “eny most ripe, and grand for pies.”

“Who are you, fellow?” said the officer, without heeding the other's request.

“Who I be? I am Jo Wilkins. But aint you going to buy some of the apples?” persisted the former.

“Blast your apples!” impatiently replied the officer; “that is not what I want of you. Where do you live?”

“Up in the edge of Arlington, when I'm tu hum—next house to uncle Jake's great burnt piece there, you know,” answered the other; “but these ap——”

“Whom are you for? King or Congress?” interrupted the officer.

“Who be Congus? I don't know him,” said the former, with a doubtful stare.

“Well, then, whom do you fight for?” resumed the somewhat mollified officer.

“Don't fight for nobody tu our house,—cause dad's a Quaker—but then if you'd buy—”

“Yes, yes; but you must tell me honestly, what you came here for to-day, and who sent you, my lad?”

“Why, dad sent me to sell the apples, 'cause he wants the money to buy some rye with. But I've been all round, and aint sell'd half, they kept bothering me so. And now its time to go hum, and nobody won't buy 'em!” said the speaker, with a doleful tone, and evident signs of snivelling.

“Well, well, my honest lad,” responded the commiserating and now satisfied officer; don't mind it—nobody wants to harm you. There is half a crown to pay you for my part of the bothering.

“Why, you going to buy 'em all?” eagerly asked the other, as, with a grin of delight, he clutched the precious metal.

“No, no,” said the former, kindly. “I don't wish for any of your apples—they are too green, though they may do for cooking. You would be most likely to sell them in some of these houses.”

“Well, now, I vown! I never thought of that! jest's likely's not I mought, you!” exclaimed the fellow, brightening up. “Good mind to go right straight into this ere house and try it—will, by golly!” he added, leaping nimbly from his pony, swinging his panniers on his arm, and hurrying off round for the back door.

“Don't molest the poor simpleton any more, but disperse to your quarters,” said the officer, now waving his ratan to the scattering crowd, and resuming his walk up the street.

Waiting no longer than to hear this order, and see that it was about to be obeyed by the crowd, Sabrey hurried down to the kitchen, where she encountered the object of her solicitude standing within the door, holding up the half crown between the fingers of one hand, and snapping those of the other, with a look that needed no interpreting.

“Your disguise, Bart,” said the maiden, looking at the other with a smile—“your disguise is so perfect, or rather, the new character, in which you this time appear, has been so well acted, that had it not been the afternoon you set for your third appearance, I should have never known you. I think you make a better Quaker boy than you did a crazy man last time, or buffoon and tumbler the first one. But what have you been able to gather, to-day?”

“Pretty much all that's afoot, guess. The movement on Bennington is begun. Peters's corps of tories and Indians have gone on to Cambridge; and he, who is off to the lake, to-day, to consult with Skene and others about the expedition, is to follow some time to-morrow, as is the German regiment picked out to the service. Got at it all, think?”

“Nearly. It is the plan, however, I understand, that when the stores are secured at Bennington, the troops are to proceed to Manchester, make prisoners of all the Council of Safety, and others of the principal men whom they can find, and return through Arlington.”

“They've got to get there, first, guess, and then catch 'em afterwards. But have you fixed out a letter about that and other things, ready for me to take? I'm aching to be off with the news.”

“No, Bart. I have just discovered plots to entrap me that have made me resolve to die before I will remain here any longer. My old persecutor, and others a thousand times more powerful, are in league against me.”

“The girl that killed the wolf would stand the racket against big bugs and all, rather guess, if she tried it. Don't know, though, being about woman matters so.”

“Ay, sir, to a woman there are human monsters more terrible than all the wolves of the forest. And I am determined on at tempting to escape from this place without another hour's delay with you, if you will permit.”

“Yes, glad to go into it; and by Captain Harry's request, I was a going to propose the same thing myself, even without your new reasons. But this getting you off before dark, which you name, may be rather ticklish, miss. How did you think to manage it?”

“Look at this, sir!” said Sabrey, exhibiting her permit by way of reply. “Signed by a man whose authority, I think, will not be questioned, and allowing me, with my servant, to pass through the lines to my friends in the country. I engage you to act as that servant, Bart.”

“I vags, now if that aint lucky!” exclaimed the former, with glistening eyes. “Yes, lucky enough, whether it come by ploughing with heifers or steers. But let's see a bit, though. How will my turning servant to a lady, all at once, tally with the stories I've been telling,—that is, till we get beyond all who heard 'em? Don't know about that. But look here, miss!” he added, beckoning the other to the window. “Do you see that tall old pine, standing alone, nearly in a line with the road, a mile or so off there, at the south?”

“Yes, very clearly.”

“Well, that tree, which is beyond, and out of sight of the last pickets, stands near a house where a widow woman lives, who washes fine clothes for some of the officers, but wants to keep in with all sides, and so asks no questions and tells no stories. My saddle and fixings are hard by there, in the bushes. Now, suppose I go on there alone, and be scrubbing up Lightfoot, and feeding her with these apples, to pay her for playing Quaker so well. Can you get on to that place by the help of the pass, and tell straight stories, if questioned, about your servant being at the wash-woman's, fixing things?”

“If you think it wisest, as it may be, I will try, and be there within an hour, if not detained. If I am, do not desert me, Bart, but return to this kitchen at dusk.”

“Agreed! But you'll go it without the ifs, I reckon,” said Bart, swinging his panniers to his shoulder, and departing with full confidence in his ability to effect an escape perilous to them both, but made much more so to him by the new charge to had so cheerfully undertaken.