“This is plain enough, and quite graphical.  Wigwam on fire?  Charlestown is not burnt, Nick?”

“Dat he—­Look like old Council Fire, gone out.  Big canoe fire—­booh—­ booh—­Nick nebber see such war before—­wah!  Dead man plenty as leaves on tree; blood run like creek!”

“Were you in this battle, Nick?  How came you to learn so much about it?”

“Don’t want to be in it—­better out—­no scalp taken.  Red-man not’in’ to do, dere.  How know about him?—­See him—­dat all.  Got eye; why no see him, behind stone wall.  Good see, behind stone wall.”

“Were you across the water yourself, or did you remain in Boston, and see from a distance?”

“Across in canoe—­tell red-coat, general send letter by Nick—­major say, he my friend—­let Nick go.”

“My son was in this bloody battle, then!” said Mrs. Willoughby.  “He writes, Hugh, that he is safe?”

“He does, dearest Wilhelmina; and Bob knows us too well, to attempt deception, in such a matter.”

“Did you see the major in the field, Nick—­after you crossed the water, I mean?”

“See him, all.  Six—­two—­seven t’ousand.  Close by; why not see major stand up like pine—­no dodge he head, dere.  Kill all round him—­ no hurt him!  Fool to stay dere—­tell him so; but he no come away.  Save he scalp, too.”

“And how many slain do you suppose there might have been left on the ground—­or, did you riot remain to see?”

“Did see—­stay to get gun—­knapsack—­oder good t’ing—­plenty about; pick him up, fast as want him.”  Here Nick coolly opened a small bundle, and exhibited an epaulette, several rings, a watch, five or six pairs of silver buckles, and divers other articles of plunder, of which he had managed to strip the dead.  “All good t’ing—­plenty as stone—­have him widout askin’.”

“So I see, Master Nick—­and is this the plunder of Englishmen, or of Americans?”

“Red-coat nearest—­got most t’ing, too.  Go farder, fare worse; as pale-face say.”

“Quite satisfactory.  Were there more red-coats left on the ground, or more Americans?”

“Red-coat so,” said Nick, holding up four fingers—­Yankee, so; “holding up one.  Take big grave to hold red-coat.  Small grave won’t hold Yankee.  Hear what he count; most red-coat.  More than t’ousand warrior!  British groan, like squaw dat lose her hunter.”

Such was Saucy Nick’s description of the celebrated, and, in some particulars, unrivalled combat of Bunker Hill, of which he had actually been an eye-witness, on the ground, though using the precaution to keep his body well covered.  He did not think it necessary to state the fact that he had given the coup-de-grace, himself, to the owner of the epaulette, nor did he deem it essential to furnish all the particulars of his mode of obtaining so many buckles.  In other respects, his account was fair enough, “nothing extenuating, or setting down aught in malice.”  The auditors had listened with intense feeling; and Maud, when the allusion was made to Robert Willoughby, buried her pallid face in her hands, and wept.  As for Beulah, time and again, she glanced anxiously at her husband, and bethought her of the danger to which he might so soon be exposed.