At the same hour, in a shaded recess of the suburb of Charlestown, stood a strongly-built and keen-eyed man, with his hand on the bridle of an impatiently waiting horse, his eyes fixed on a distant spire that rose like a shadow through the gloom of the night.  Paul Revere was the name of this expectant patriot.  He had just before crossed the Charles River in a small boat, rowing needfully through the darkness, for his route lay under the guns of a British man-of-war, the “Somerset,” on whose deck, doubtless were watchful eyes on the lookout for midnight prowlers.  Fortunately, the dark shadows which lay upon the water hid the solitary rower from view, and he reached the opposite shore unobserved.  Here a swift horse had been provided for him, and he was bidden to be keenly on the alert, as a force of mounted British officers were on the road which he might soon have to take.

[Illustration:  The old north church, Boston.]

And still the night moved on in its slow and silent course, while slumber locked the eyes of most of the worthy people of Boston town, and few of the patriots were afoot.  But among these was the ardent man who stood with his eyes impatiently fixed on the lofty spire of the Old North Church, and in the town itself others heedfully watched the secret movements of the British troops.

Suddenly a double gleam flashed from the far-off spire.  Two lighted candles had been placed in the belfry window of the church, and their feeble glimmer sped swiftly through the intervening air and fell upon the eyes of the expectant messenger.  No sooner had the light met his gaze than Paul Revere, with a glad cry of relief, sprang to his saddle, gave his uneasy horse the rein, and dashed away at a swinging pace, the hoof-beats of his horse sounding like the hammer-strokes of fate as he bore away on his vital errand.

A minute or two brought him past Charlestown Neck.  But not many steps had he taken on his onward course before peril to his enterprise suddenly confronted him.  Two British officers appeared in the road.

“Who goes there?  Halt!” was their stern command.

Paul Revere looked at them.  They were mounted and armed.  Should he attempt to dash past them?  It was too risky and his errand too important.  But there was another road near by, whose entrance he had just passed.  With a quick jerk at the rein he turned his horse, and in an instant was flying back at racing speed.

“Halt, or we will fire!” cried the officers, spurring their horses to swift pursuit.

Heedless of this command the bold rider drove headlong back, his horse quickly proving his mettle by distancing those of his pursuers.  A few minutes brought him to the entrance to the Medford Road.  Into this he sharply wheeled, and was quickly away again towards his distant goal.  Meanwhile one of the officers, finding himself distanced, turned his horse into the fields lying between the two roads, with the purpose of riding across and cutting off the flight of the fugitive.  He had not taken many steps, however, before he found his horse floundering in a clay-pit, while Revere on the opposite road shot past, with a ringing shout of triumph as he went.