Myths and Legends of Our Own Land, vol 3 | Page 6

pistol; it was dropped by the Tory when he

entered. Grasping it eagerly the farmer leaps to his feet. His years have
fallen from him. With a tiger-like bound he gains the door, rushes to
the spring-house where John Blake is crouching, his eyes sunk and
shining, gnawing his fingers in a craze of dismay. But though hate is
swift, love is swifter, and the girl is there as soon as he. She strikes his
arm aside, and the bullet he has fired lodges in the wood. He draws out
his knife, and the murderer, to whom has now come the calmness of
despair, kneels and offers his breast to the blade. Before he can strike,
the soldiers hasten up, and seizing Blake, they drag him to the
house--the little room--where all had been so peaceful but a few
minutes before.
The culprit is brought face to face with Washington, who asks him
what harm he has ever suffered from his fellow countrymen that he
should turn against them thus. Blake hangs his head and owns his
willingness to die. His eyes rest on the form extended on the floor, and
he shudders; but his features undergo an almost joyous change, for the
figure lifts itself, and in a faint voice calls, "Father!" The young man
lives. With a cry of delight both father and sister raise him in their arms.
"You are not yet prepared to die," says Washington to the captive. "I
will put you under guard until you are wanted. Take him into custody,
my dear young lady, and try to make an American of him. See, it is one
o'clock, and this is Christmas morning. May all be happy here. Come."
And beckoning to his men he rides away, though Blake and his
affianced would have gone on their knees before him. Revulsion of
feeling, love, thankfulness and a latent patriotism wrought a quick
change in Blake. When young Kuch recovered Blake joined his
regiment, and no soldier served the flag more honorably.

LORD PERCY'S DREAM
Leaving the dissipations of the English court, Lord Percy came to
America to share the fortunes of his brethren in the contest then raging
on our soil. His father had charged him with the delivery of a certain
package to an Indian woman, should he meet her in his rambles
through the western wilds, and, without inquiring into the nature of the
gift or its occasion, he accepted the trust. At the battle of the
Brandywine-- strangely foretold by Quaker prophecy forty years
before--he was detailed by Cornwallis to drive the colonial troops out

of a graveyard where they had intrenched themselves, and though he
set upon this errand with the enthusiasm of youth, his cheek paled as he
drew near the spot where the enemy was waiting.
It was not that he had actual physical fear of the onset: he had dreamed
a dream a few nights before, the purport of which he had hinted to his
comrades, and as he rode into the clearing at the top of Osborn's Hill he
drew rein and exclaimed, "My dream! Yonder is the graveyard. I am
fated to die there." Giving a few of his effects to his brother officers,
and charging one of them to take a message of love to his betrothed in
England, he set his lips and rode forward.
His cavalry bound toward the scene of action and are within thirty
paces of the cemetery wall, when from behind it rises a battalion of
men in the green uniform of the Santee Rangers and pours a withering
fire into the ranks. The shock is too great to withstand, and the
red-coats stagger away with broken ranks, leaving many dead and
wounded on the ground. Lord Percy is the coolest of all. He urges the
broken columns forward, and almost alone holds the place until the
infantry, a hundred yards behind, come up. Thereupon ensues one of
those hand-to-hand encounters that are so rare in recent war, and that
are the sorest test of valor and discipline. Now rides forward Captain
Waldemar, chief of the rangers and a half-breed Indian, who, seeing
Percy, recognizes him as an officer and engages him in combat. There
is for a minute a clash of steel on steel; then the nobleman falls heavily
to the earth--dead. His dream has come true. That night the captain
Waldemar seeks out the body of this officer, attracted by something in
the memory of his look, and from his bosom takes the packet that was
committed to his care.
By lantern-light he reads, carelessly at first, then rapidly and eagerly,
and at the close he looks long and earnestly at the dead man, and seems
to brush away a tear. Strange thing to do over the body