“Reverend Sir,” with a mocking bow, “when not better employed braiding my beard, I have a little dabbled in your theologies.  And let me tell you, Reverend Sir,” lowering and intensifying his voice, “that as to the world of spirits, of which you hint, though I know nothing of the mode or manner of that world, no more than do you, yet I expect when I shall arrive there to be treated as well as any other gentleman of my merit.  That is to say, far better than you British know how to treat an American officer and meek-hearted Christian captured in honorable war, by ——!  Every one tells me, as you yourself just breathed, and as, crossing the sea, every billow dinned into my ear, that I, Ethan Allen, am to be hung like a thief.  If I am, the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress shall avenge me; while I, for my part, shall show you, even on the tree, how a Christian gentleman can die.  Meantime, sir, if you are the clergyman you look, act out your consolatory function, by getting an unfortunate Christian gentleman about to die, a bowl of punch.”

The good-natured stranger, not to have his religious courtesy appealed to in vain, immediately dispatched his servant, who stood by, to procure the beverage.

At this juncture, a faint rustling sound, as of the advance of an army with banners, was heard.  Silks, scarfs, and ribbons fluttered in the background.  Presently, a bright squadron of fair ladies drew nigh, escorted by certain outriding gallants of Falmouth.

“Ah,” sighed a soft voice, “what a strange sash, and furred vest, and what leopard-like teeth, and what flaxen hair, but all mildewed;—­is that he?”

“Yea, is it, lovely charmer,” said Allen, like an Ottoman, bowing over his broad, bovine forehead, and breathing the words out like a lute; “it is he—­Ethan Allen, the soldier; now, since ladies’ eyes visit him, made trebly a captive.”

“Why, he talks like a beau in a parlor, this wild, mossed American from the woods,” sighed another fair lady to her mate; “but can this be he we came to see?  I must have a lock of his hair.”

“It is he, adorable Delilah; and fear not, even though incited by the foe, by clipping my locks, to dwindle my strength.  Give me your sword, man,” turning to an officer:—­“Ah!  I’m fettered.  Clip it yourself, lady.”

“No, no—­I am—­”

“Afraid, would you say?  Afraid of the vowed friend and champion of all ladies all round the world?  Nay, nay, come hither.”

The lady advanced; and soon, overcoming her timidity, her white hand shone like whipped foam amid the matted waves of flaxen hair.

“Ah, this is like clipping tangled tags of gold-lace,” cried she; “but see, it is half straw.”

“But the wearer is no man-of-straw, lady; were I free, and you had ten thousand foes—­horse, foot, and dragoons—­how like a friend I could fight for you!  Come, you have robbed me of my hair; let me rob your dainty hand of its price.  What, afraid again?”