“You are quite clever,” said he, touching his gray mustache.

I made no answer, but stood pulling myself together.

“You will learn,” he added, smiling, with a tone of encouragement.  “Let me show you a trick.”

He was most polite in his manner, like a play-hero, and came toward me as he spoke.  Then I saw four other Britishers coming out to close in upon us from behind trees.

He came at me quickly, and I met him.  He seemed to think it would be no trick to unhand my weapon.  Like a flash, with a whip of his sabre, he tried to wrench it away.  D’ri had begun to shoot, dodging between trees, and a redcoat had tumbled over.  I bore in upon my man, but he came back at me with surprising vigor.  On my word, he was the quickest swordsman I ever had the honor of facing.

But he had a mean way of saying “Ha!” as he turned my point.  He soon angered me, whereupon I lost a bit of caution, with some blood, for he was at me like a flash, and grazed me on the hip before I could get my head again.  It was no parlor play, I can tell you.  We were fighting for life, and both knew it.  We fought up and down through brakes and bushes and over stones—­a perilous footing.  I could feel his hand weakening.  I put all my speed to the steel then, knowing well that, barring accident, I should win.  I could hear somebody coming up behind me.

“Keep away there,” my adversary shouted, with a fairness I admire when I think of it.  “I can handle him.  Get the other fellow.”

I went at him to make an end of it.

“I’ll make you squint, you young cub,” he hissed, lunging at me.

He ripped my blouse at the shoulder, and, gods of war! we made the sparks fly.  Then he went down, wriggling; I had caught him in the side, poor fellow!  Like a flash I was off in a thicket.  One of the enemy got out of my way and sent a bullet after me.  I could feel it rip and sting in the muscle as it rubbed my ribs.  I kept foot and made for my horse.  He had caught his reins, and I was on him and off in the bush, between bullets that came ripping the leaves about me, before they could give chase.

Drums were beating the call to arms somewhere.  I struck the trail in a minute, and, leaning low in the saddle, went bounding over logs and rocks and down a steep hillside as if the devil were after me.  I looked back, and was nearly raked off by a bough.  I could hear horses coming in the trail behind with quick and heavy jumps.  But I was up to rough riding and had little fear they would get a sight of me.  However, crossing a long stretch of burnt timber, they must have seen me.  I heard a crack of pistols far behind; a whiz of bullets over my head.  I shook out the reins and let the horse go, urging with cluck and spur, never slacking for rock or hill or swale.  It was a wilder ride than any I have known since or shall again, I can promise you, for, God knows, I have been hurt too often.  Fast riding over a new trail is leaping in the dark and worse than treason to one’s self.  Add to it a saddle wet with your own blood, then you have something to give you a turn of the stomach thinking of it.