“Well now, we’ll make belave this is a bittillion, an’ you’re cornel, an’ Oi’m sargint-major.  It’s ten shtrong we are, an’ there’s three roifles an’ two double barrels anyhow.  You git in the rare, Cornel an’ Mishter Coristine an’ Mishter Parrowne an’ Ben Toner; the rist av yeez shtay where yeez are, till I say ‘Extind!’ thin, tin paces apart for the front rank, an’ tin for the rare rank; but the rare alternatin’ wid the front.  Whin Oi say, ‘Front rank!’ that rank’ll diliver it’s foire, an’ go on wid its loadin’ behind a three, moind! an’ so on wid the rare.  By the powers, here the varmints come.  Shtiddy min, lishten till me an’ be quoiet—­Extind!”

There were some loudly beating hearts at that moment, for the enemy was in force, and partly armed with guns of some sort.  Instead of advancing across the fields, as the defenders had hoped, they descended to the creek, in order to find cover from the bushes on its bank, until they reached the piece of wood.  The veteran, telling his command to preserve its formation, wheeled it to the right, and ordered perfect silence.  Leaving his rifle at his post, he slipped from tree to tree like a cat, having thrown off his shoes for the purpose.  When he returned, the enemy, moving almost as silently, had entered the bush, but, anticipating no sentry at that point, had sought no cover.  “Shtiddy, now min,” whispered the sarjint-major; “take good aim, Front Rank, Riddy!” Five guns rolled out a challenge to the invaders, and, before they had time to seek cover, came, “Rare Rank, Riddy,” and his own rifle led the other four weapons of the second line.  “Are yeez loaded, front an’ rare?” asked the ancient warrior; and, satisfied that all were, he put himself in the front and ordered a charge to outflank the enemy and hinder them getting away among the bushes.  All perceived his intentions, except, perhaps, the two Pilgrims and Toner, who, however, were borne along by the rest.  Dashing through the creek, part of the force volleyed the miscreants from there, and drove them into the open, while the remaining part kept them from seeking refuge in the bush.  The Squire’s men had the shelter of the brook alders and willows, now, and, led by Mr. Terry, in single file, at a rate almost as rapid as that of Rawdon’s retreat, faced now and again to the left to fire, and loaded as they ran.  At last the shelter ceased, and all were in the open, both pursued and pursuers.  “Kape it up,” cried the indomitable veteran; “don’t give the murtherin’ blagyards a minit’s resht!” Up, up the hill, they chased the said blackguards, until they reached the road.  Within the skirting rail fences the Squire kept his men, faint but pursuing, and firing an occasional shot to lend the speed of terror to the miscreants’ heels.  In an hour from the beginning of the pursuit, the hunted Rawdonites were at the wild lands on the lakes, and prepared to enter the forest and make a stand or hide; when Carruthers cried:  “Down flat on your faces every man,” and five reports