{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6608/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6608","id":"gutenberg_6608","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6608","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - American","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Folklore -- United States"],"text":"Produced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\n                           MYTHS AND LEGENDS\n                                   OF\n                              OUR OWN LAND\n\n                                   By\n                           Charles M. Skinner\n\n                                Vol. 3.\n\n\n                       ON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS:\n\nThe Phantom Dragoon\nDelaware Water Gap\nThe Phantom Drummer\nThe Missing Soldier of Valley Forge\nThe Last Shot at Germantown\nA Blow in the Dark\nThe Tory's Conversion\nLord Percy's Dream\nSaved by the Bible\nParricide of the Wissahickon\nThe Blacksmith at Brandywine\nFather and Son\nThe Envy of Manitou\nThe Last Revel in Printz Hall\nThe Two Rings\nFlame Scalps of the Chartiers\nThe Consecration of Washington\nMarion\n\n\n\n\n\n\nON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE\n\n\n\nTHE PHANTOM DRAGOON\n\nThe height that rises a mile or so to the south of Newark, Delaware, is\ncalled Iron Hill, because it is rich in hematite ore, but about the time\nof General Howe's advance to the Brandywine it might well have won its\nname because of the panoply of war--the sullen guns, the flashing swords,\nand glistening bayonets--that appeared among the British tents pitched on\nit. After the red-coats had established camp here the American outposts\nwere advanced and one of the pickets was stationed at Welsh Tract Church.\nOn his first tour of duty the sentry was thrown into great alarm by the\nappearance of a figure robed from head to foot in white, that rode a\nhorse at a charging gait within ten feet of his face. When guard was\nrelieved the soldier begged that he might never be assigned to that post\nagain. His nerves were strong in the presence of an enemy in the\nflesh--but an enemy out of the grave! Ugh! He would desert rather than\nencounter that shape again. His request was granted. The sentry who\nsucceeded him was startled, in the small hours, by a rush of hoofs and\nthe flash of a pallid form. He fired at it, and thought that he heard the\nsound of a mocking laugh come back.\n\nEvery night the phantom horseman made his rounds, and several times the\nsentinels shot at him without effect, the white horse and white rider\nshowing no annoyance at these assaults. When it came the turn of a\nsceptical and unimaginative old corporal to take the night detail, he\ntook the liberty of assuming the responsibilities of this post himself.\nHe looked well to the priming of his musket, and at midnight withdrew out\nof the moonshine and waited, with his gun resting on a fence. It was not\nlong before the beat of hoofs was heard approaching, and in spite of\nhimself the corporal felt a thrill along his spine as a mounted figure\nthat might have represented Death on the pale horse came into view; but\nhe jammed his hat down, set his teeth, and sighted his flint-lock with\ndeliberation. The rider was near, when bang went the corporal's musket,\nand a white form was lying in the road, a horse speeding into the\ndistance. Scrambling over the fence, the corporal, reassured, ran to the\nform and turned it over: a British scout, quite dead. The daring fellow,\nrelying on the superstitious fears of the rustics in his front, had made\na nightly ride as a ghost, in order to keep the American outposts from\nadvancing, and also to guess, from elevated points, at the strength and\ndisposition of their troops. He wore a cuirass of steel, but that did not\nprotect his brain from the corporal's bullet.\n\n\n\n\nDELAWARE WATER GAP\n\nThe Indian name of this beautiful region, Minisink, \"the water is gone,\"\nagrees with the belief of geologists that a lake once existed behind the\nBlue Ridge, and that it burst its way through the hills at this point.\nSimilar results were produced by a cataclysm on the Connecticut at Mount\nHolyoke, on the Lehigh at Mauch Chunk, and Runaway Pond, New Hampshire,\ngot its name by a like performance. The aborigines, whatever may be said\nagainst them, enjoyed natural beauty, and their habitations were often\nmade in this delightful region, their councils being attended by chief\nTamanend, or Tammany, a Delaware, whose wisdom and virtues were such as\nto raise him to the place of patron saint of America. The notorious\nTammany Society of New York is named for him. When this chief became old\nand feeble his tribe abandoned him in a hut at New Britain, Pennsylvania,\nand there he tried to kill himself by stabbing, but failing in that, he\nflung burning leaves over himself, and so perished. He was buried where\nhe died. It was a princess of his tribe that gave the name of Lover's\nLeap to a cliff on Mount Tammany, by leaping from it to her death,\nbecause her love for a young European was not reciprocated.\n\nThere is a silver-mine somewhere on the opposite mountain of Minsi, the\nknowledge of its location having perished with the death of a recluse,\nwho coined the metal he took from it into valuable though illegal\ndollars, going townward every winter to squander his earnings. During the\nRevolution \"Oran the Hawk,\" a Tory and renegade, was vexatious to the\npeople of Delaware Valley, and a detachment of colonial troops was sent\nin pursuit of him. They overtook him at the Gap and chased him up the\nslopes of Tammany, though he checked their progress by rolling stones\namong them. One rock struck a trooper, crushed him, and bore him down to\nthe base of a cliff, his blood smearing it in his descent. But though he\nseemed to have eluded his pursuers, Oran was shot in several places\nduring his flight, and when at last he cast himself into a thicket, to\nrest and get breath, it was never to rise again. His bones, cracked by\nbullets and gnawed by beasts, were found there when the leaves fell.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHANTOM DRUMMER\n\nColonel Howell, of the king's troops, was a gay fellow, framed to make\nwomen false; but when he met the rosy, sweet-natured daughter of farmer\nJarrett, near Valley Forge, he attempted no dalliance, for he fell too\nseriously in love. He might not venture into the old man's presence, for\nJarrett had a son with Washington, and he hated a red-coat as he did the\ndevil; but the young officer met the girl in secret, and they plighted\ntroth beneath the garden trees, hidden in gray mist. As Howell bent to\ntake his first kiss that night, a rising wind went past, bringing from\nafar the roll of a drum, and as they talked the drum kept drawing nearer,\nuntil it seemed at hand. The officer peered across the wall, then hurried\nto his mistress' side, as pale as death. The fields outside were empty of\nlife.\n\nLouder came the rattling drum; it seemed to enter the gate, pass but a\nyard away, go through the wall, and die in the distance. When it ceased,\nHowell started as if a spell had been lifted, laxed his grip on the\nmaiden's hand, then drew her to his breast convulsively. Ruth's terror\nwas more vague but no less genuine than his own, and some moments passed\nbefore she could summon voice to ask him what this visitation meant. He\nanswered, \"Something is about to change my fortunes for good or ill;\nprobably for ill. Important events in my family for the past three\ngenerations have been heralded by that drum, and those events were\ndisasters oftener than benefits.\" Few more words passed, and with another\nkiss the soldier scaled the wall and galloped away, the triple beat of\nhis charger's hoofs sounding back into the maiden's ears like drum-taps.\nIn a skirmish next day Colonel Howell was shot. He was carried to farmer\nJarrett's house and left there, in spite of the old man's protest, for he\nwas willing to give no shelter to his country's enemies. When Ruth saw\nher lover in this strait she was like to have fallen, but when she\nlearned that it would take but a few days of quiet and care to restore\nhim to health, she was ready to forgive her fellow-countrymen for\ninflicting an injury that might result in happiness for both of them.\n\nIt took a great deal of teasing to overcome the scruples of the farmer,\nbut he gruffly consented to receive the young man until his hurt should\nheal. Ruth attended him faithfully, and the cheerful, manly nature of the\nofficer so won the farmer's heart that he soon forgot the color of\nHowell's coat. Nor was he surprised when Howell told him that he loved\nhis daughter and asked for her hand; indeed, it had been easy to guess\ntheir affection, and the old man declared that but for his allegiance to\na tyrant he would gladly own him as a son-in-law. It was a long struggle\nbetween love and duty that ensued in Howell's breast, and love was\nvictor. If he might marry Ruth he would leave the army. The old man gave\nprompt consent, and a secret marriage was arranged. Howell had been\nordered to rejoin his regiment; he could not honorably resign on the eve\nof an impending battle, and, even had he done so, a long delay must have\npreceded his release. He would marry the girl, go to the country, live\nthere quietly until the British evacuated Philadelphia, when he would\nreturn and cast his lot with the Jarrett household.\n\nHowell donned citizen's dress, and the wedding took place in the spacious\nbest room of the mansion, but as he slipped the ring on the finger of his\nbride the roll of a drum was heard advancing up the steps into the room,\nthen on and away until all was still again. The young colonel was pale;\nRuth clung to him in terror; clergymen and guests looked at each other in\namazement. Now there were voices at the porch, the door was flung open,\narmed men entered, and the bridegroom was a prisoner. He was borne to his\nquarters, and afterward tried for desertion, for a servant in the Jarrett\nhousehold, hating all English and wishing them to suffer, even at each\nother's hands, had betrayed the plan of his master's guest. The\ncourt-martial found him guilty and condemned him to be shot. When the\nexecution took place, Ruth, praying and sobbing in her chamber, knew that\nher husband was no more. The distant sound of musketry reverberated like\nthe roll of a drum.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MISSING SOLDIER OF VALLEY FORGE\n\nDuring the dreadful winter of the American encampment at Valley Forge six\nor eight soldiers went out to forage for provisions. Knowing that little\nwas to be hoped for near the camp of their starving comrades, they set\noff in the direction of French Creek. At this stream the party separated,\nand a little later two of the men were attacked by Tory farmers. Flying\nalong the creek for some distance they came to a small cave in a bluff,\nand one of them, a young Southerner named Carrington, scrambled into it.\nHis companion was not far behind, and was hurrying toward the cave, when\nhe was arrested by a rumble and a crash: a block of granite, tons in\nweight, that had hung poised overhead, slid from its place and completely\nblocked the entrance. The stifled cry of despair from the living occupant\nof the tomb struck to his heart. He hid in a neighboring wood until the\nTories had dispersed, then, returning to the cave, he strove with might\nand main to stir the boulder from its place, but without avail.\n\nWhen he reached camp, as he did next day, he told of this disaster, but\nthe time for rescue was believed to be past, or the work was thought to\nbe too exhausting and dangerous for a body of men who had much ado to\nkeep life in their own weak frames. It was a double tragedy, for the\nyoung man's sweetheart never recovered from the shock that the news\noccasioned, and on her tomb, near Richmond, Virginia, these words are\nchiselled: \"Died, of a broken heart, on the 1st of March, 1780, Virginia\nRandolph, aged 21 years, 9 days. Faithful unto death.\" In the summer of\n1889 some workmen, blasting rock near the falls on French Creek,\nuncovered the long-concealed cavern and found there a skeleton with a few\nrags of a Continental uniform. In a bottle beside it was an account,\nsigned by Arthur L. Carrington, of the accident that had befallen him,\nand a letter declaring undying love for his sweetheart.\n\nHe had starved to death. The bones were neatly coffined, and were sent to\nRichmond to be buried beside those of the faithful Miss Randolph.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST SHOT AT GERMANTOWN\n\nMany are the tales of prophecy that have been preserved to us from war\ntimes. In the beginning of King Philip's war in Connecticut, in 1675, it\nwas reported that the firing of the first gun was heard all over the\nState, while the drumbeats calling settlers to defence were audible eight\nmiles away. Braddock's defeat and the salvation of Washington were\nforetold by a Miami chief at a council held in Fort Ponchartrain, on\nDetroit River, the ambush and the slaughter having been revealed to him\nin a dream. The victims of that battle, too, had been apprised, for one\nor two nights before the disaster a young lieutenant in Braddock's\ncommand saw his fellow-officers pass through his tent, bloody and torn,\nand when the first gun sounded he knew that it spoke the doom of nearly\nall his comrades. At Killingly, Connecticut, in the autumn before the\noutbreak of the Revolution, a distant roar of artillery was heard for a\nwhole day and night in the direction of Boston, mingled with a rattle of\nmusketry, and so strong was the belief that war had begun and the British\nwere advancing, that the minute men mustered to await orders. It was\nafterward argued that these noises came from an explosion of meteors, a\nshower of these missiles being then in progress, invisible, of course, in\nthe day-time. Just after the signing of the Declaration of Independence\nthe royal arms on the spire of the Episcopal church at Hampton, Virginia,\nwere struck off by lightning. Shortly before the surrender of Cornwallis\na display of northern lights was seen in New England, the rays taking the\nform of cannon, facing southward. In Connecticut sixty-four of these guns\nwere counted.\n\nAt the battle of Germantown the Americans were enraged by the killing of\none of their men who had gone out with a flag of truce. He was shot from\nthe windows of Judge Chew's house, which was crowded with British\nsoldiers, and as he fell to the lawn, dyeing the peaceful emblem with his\nblood, at least one of the Continentals swore that his death should be\nwell avenged. The British reinforcements, sixteen thousand strong, came\nhurrying through the street, their officers but half-dressed, so urgent\nhad been the summons for their aid. Except for their steady tramp the\nplace was silent; doors were locked and shutters bolted, and if people\nwere within doors no sign of them was visible. General Agnew alone of all\nthe troop seemed depressed and anxious. Turning to an aide as they passed\nthe Mennonist graveyard, he said, \"This field is the last I shall fight\non.\"\n\nAn eerie face peered over the cemetery wall, a scarred, unshaven face\nframed in long hair and surmounting a body clothed in skins, with the\nquestion, \"Is that the brave General Gray who beat the rebels at Paoli?\"\nOne of the soldiers, with a careless toss of the hand, seemed to indicate\nGeneral Agnew. A moment later there was a report, a puff of smoke from\nthe cemetery wall, and a bullet whizzed by the head of the general, who\nsmiled wanly, to encourage his men. Summary execution would have been\ndone upon the stranger had not a body of American cavalry dashed against\nthe red-coats at that moment, and a fierce contest was begun. When the\nday was over, General Agnew, who had been separated from his command in\nthe confusion of battle, came past the graves again. Tired and depressed,\nhe drew rein for a moment to breathe the sweet air, so lately fouled with\ndust and smoke, and to watch the gorgeous light of sunset. Again, like a\nmalignant genius of the place, the savage-looking stranger arose from\nbehind the wall. A sharp report broke the quiet of evening and awoke\nclattering echoes from the distant houses. A horse plunged and General\nAgnew rolled from his saddle, dead: the last victim in the strife at\nGermantown.\n\n\n\n\nA BLOW IN THE DARK\n\nThe Tory Manheim sits brooding in his farmhouse near Valley Forge, and\nhis daughter, with a hectic flush on her cheek, looks out into the\ntwilight at the falling snow. She is worn and ill; she has brought on a\nfever by exposure incurred that very day in a secret journey to the\nAmerican camp, made to warn her lover of another attempt on the life of\nWashington, who must pass her father's house on his return from a distant\nsettlement. The Tory knows nothing of this; but he starts whenever the\nmen in the next room rattle the dice or break into a ribald song, and a\nfrown of apprehension crosses his face as the foragers crunch by,\nhalf-barefoot, through the snow. The hours go on, and the noise in the\nnext room increases; but it hushes suddenly when a knock at the door is\nheard. The Tory opens it, and trembles as a tall, grave man, with the\nfigure of an athlete, steps into the fire-light and calmly removes his\ngloves. \"I have been riding far,\" said he. \"Can you give me some food and\nthe chance to sleep for an hour, until the storm clears up?\"\n\nManheim says that he can, and shuffling into the next room, he whispers,\n\"Washington!\" The girl is sent out to get refreshments. It is in vain\nthat she seeks to sign or speak to the man who sits there so calmly\nbefore the fire, for her father is never out of sight or hearing. After\nWashington has finished his modest repast he asks to be left to himself\nfor a while, but the girl is told to conduct him to the room on the left\nof the landing on the next floor.\n\nHer father holds the candle at the foot of the stairs until he sees his\nguest enter; then he bids his daughter go to her own bed, which is in the\nchamber on the right of the landing. There is busy whispering in the room\nbelow after that, and the dice box is shaken to see to whose lot it shall\nfall to steal up those stairs and stab Washington in his sleep. An hour\npasses and all in the house appear to be at rest, but the stairs creak\nslightly as Manheim creeps upon his prey. He blows his candle out and\nsoftly enters the chamber on the left. The men, who listen in the dark at\nthe foot of the stair, hear a moan, and the Tory hurries back with a\nshout of gladness, for the rebel chief is no more and Howe's reward will\nenrich them for life.\n\nGlasses are filled, and in the midst of the rejoicing a step is heard on\nthe stair. Washington stands before them. In calm, deep tones he thanks\nthe farmer for his shelter, and asks that his horse be brought to the\ndoor and his reckoning be made out. The Tory stares as one bereft. Then\nhe rushes aloft, flings open the door of the room on the left, and gazes\nat the face that rests on the pillow,--a pillow that is dabbled with red.\nThe face is that of his daughter. The name of father is one that he will\nnever hear again in this world. The candle falls from his hand; he sinks\nto the floor; be his sin forgiven! Outside is heard the tramp of a horse.\nIt is that of Washington, who rides away, ignorant of the peril he has\npassed and the sacrifice that averted it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TORY'S CONVERSION\n\nIn his firelit parlor, in his little house at Valley Forge, old Michael\nKuch sits talking with his daughter. But though it is Christmas eve the\ntalk has little cheer in it. The hours drag on until the clock strikes\ntwelve, and the old man is about to offer his evening prayer for the\nsafety of his son, who is one of Washington's troopers, when hurried\nsteps are heard in the snow, there is a fumbling at the latch, then the\ndoor flies open and admits a haggard, panting man who hastily closes it\nagain, falls into a seat, and shakes from head to foot. The girl goes to\nhim. \"John!\" she says. But he only averts his face. \"What is wrong with\nthee, John Blake?\" asks the farmer. But he has to ask again and again ere\nhe gets an answer. Then, in a broken voice, the trembling man confesses\nthat he has tried to shoot Washington, but the bullet struck and killed\nhis only attendant, a dragoon. He has come for shelter, for men are on\nhis track already. \"Thou know'st I am neutral in this war, John Blake,\"\nanswered the farmer,--\"although I have a boy down yonder in the camp. It\nwas a cowardly thing to do, and I hate you Tories that you do not fight\nlike men; yet, since you ask me for a hiding-place, you shall have it,\nthough, mind you, 'tis more on the girl's account than yours. The men are\ncoming. Out--this way--to the spring-house. So!\"\n\nBefore old Michael has time to return to his chair the door is again\nthrust open, this time by men in blue and buff. They demand the assassin,\nwhose footsteps they have tracked there through the snow. Michael does\nnot answer. They are about to use violence when, through the open door,\ncomes Washington, who checks them with a word. The general bears a\ndrooping form with a blood splash on its breast, and deposits it on the\nhearth as gently as a mother puts a babe into its cradle. As the\nfirelight falls on the still face the farmer's eyes grow round and big;\nthen he shrieks and drops upon his knees, for it is his son who is lying\nthere. Beside him is a pistol; it was dropped by the Tory when he\nentered. Grasping it eagerly the farmer leaps to his feet. His years have\nfallen from him. With a tiger-like bound he gains the door, rushes to the\nspring-house where John Blake is crouching, his eyes sunk and shining,\ngnawing his fingers in a craze of dismay. But though hate is swift, love\nis swifter, and the girl is there as soon as he. She strikes his arm\naside, and the bullet he has fired lodges in the wood. He draws out his\nknife, and the murderer, to whom has now come the calmness of despair,\nkneels and offers his breast to the blade. Before he can strike, the\nsoldiers hasten up, and seizing Blake, they drag him to the house--the\nlittle room--where all had been so peaceful but a few minutes before.\n\nThe culprit is brought face to face with Washington, who asks him what\nharm he has ever suffered from his fellow countrymen that he should turn\nagainst them thus. Blake hangs his head and owns his willingness to die.\nHis eyes rest on the form extended on the floor, and he shudders; but his\nfeatures undergo an almost joyous change, for the figure lifts itself,\nand in a faint voice calls, \"Father!\" The young man lives. With a cry of\ndelight both father and sister raise him in their arms. \"You are not yet\nprepared to die,\" says Washington to the captive. \"I will put you under\nguard until you are wanted. Take him into custody, my dear young lady,\nand try to make an American of him. See, it is one o'clock, and this is\nChristmas morning. May all be happy here. Come.\" And beckoning to his men\nhe rides away, though Blake and his affianced would have gone on their\nknees before him. Revulsion of feeling, love, thankfulness and a latent\npatriotism wrought a quick change in Blake. When young Kuch recovered\nBlake joined his regiment, and no soldier served the flag more honorably.\n\n\n\n\nLORD PERCY'S DREAM\n\nLeaving the dissipations of the English court, Lord Percy came to America\nto share the fortunes of his brethren in the contest then raging on our\nsoil. His father had charged him with the delivery of a certain package\nto an Indian woman, should he meet her in his rambles through the western\nwilds, and, without inquiring into the nature of the gift\nor its occasion, he accepted the trust. At the battle of the\nBrandywine--strangely foretold by Quaker prophecy forty years before--he\nwas detailed by Cornwallis to drive the colonial troops out of a\ngraveyard where they had intrenched themselves, and though he set upon\nthis errand with the enthusiasm of youth, his cheek paled as he drew near\nthe spot where the enemy was waiting.\n\nIt was not that he had actual physical fear of the onset: he had dreamed\na dream a few nights before, the purport of which he had hinted to his\ncomrades, and as he rode into the clearing at the top of Osborn's Hill he\ndrew rein and exclaimed, \"My dream! Yonder is the graveyard. I am fated\nto die there.\" Giving a few of his effects to his brother officers, and\ncharging one of them to take a message of love to his betrothed in\nEngland, he set his lips and rode forward.\n\nHis cavalry bound toward the scene of action and are within thirty paces\nof the cemetery wall, when from behind it rises a battalion of men in the\ngreen uniform of the Santee Rangers and pours a withering fire into the\nranks. The shock is too great to withstand, and the red-coats stagger\naway with broken ranks, leaving many dead and wounded on the ground. Lord\nPercy is the coolest of all. He urges the broken columns forward, and\nalmost alone holds the place until the infantry, a hundred yards behind,\ncome up. Thereupon ensues one of those hand-to-hand encounters that are\nso rare in recent war, and that are the sorest test of valor and\ndiscipline. Now rides forward Captain Waldemar, chief of the rangers and\na half-breed Indian, who, seeing Percy, recognizes him as an officer and\nengages him in combat. There is for a minute a clash of steel on steel;\nthen the nobleman falls heavily to the earth--dead. His dream has come\ntrue. That night the captain Waldemar seeks out the body of this officer,\nattracted by something in the memory of his look, and from his bosom\ntakes the packet that was committed to his care.\n\nBy lantern-light he reads, carelessly at first, then rapidly and eagerly,\nand at the close he looks long and earnestly at the dead man, and seems\nto brush away a tear. Strange thing to do over the body of an enemy! Why\nhad fate decreed that they should be enemies? For Waldemar is the\nhalf-brother of Percy. His mother was the Indian girl that the earl, now\npassing his last days in England, had deceived with a pretended marriage,\nand the letters promise patronage to her son. The half-breed digs a grave\nthat night with his own hands and lays the form of his brother in it.\n\n\n\n\nSAVED BY THE BIBLE\n\nIt was on the day after the battle of Germantown that Warner, who wore\nthe blue, met his hated neighbor, the Tory Dabney, near that bloody\nfield.\n\nBy a common impulse the men fell upon each other with their knives, and\nWarner soon had his enemy in a position to give him the death-stroke, but\nDabney began to bellow for quarter. \"My brother cried for quarter at\nPaoli,\" answered the other, \"and you struck him to the heart.\"\n\n\"I have a wife and child. Spare me for their sakes.\"\n\n\"My brother had a wife and two children. Perhaps you would like to beg\nyour life of them.\"\n\nThough made in mockery, this proposition was caught at so earnestly that\nWarner at length consented to take his adversary, firmly bound, to the\nhouse where the bereaved family was living. The widow was reading the\nBible to her children, but her grief was too fresh to gather comfort from\nit. When Dabney was flung into the room he grovelled at her feet and\nbegged piteously for mercy. Her face did not soften, but there was a kind\nof contempt in the settled sadness of her tone as she said, \"It shall be\nas God directs. I will close this Bible, open it at chance, and when this\nboy shall put his finger at random on a line, by that you must live or\ndie.\"\n\nThe book was opened, and the child put his finger on a line: \"That man\nshall die.\"\n\nWarner drew his knife and motioned his prisoner to the door. He was going\nto lead him into the wood to offer him as a sacrifice to his brother's\nspirit.\n\n\"No, no!\" shrieked the wretch. \"Give me one more chance; one more! Let\nthe girl open the book.\"\n\nThe woman coldly consents, and when the book is opened for the second\ntime she reads, \"Love your enemies.\" There are no other words. The knife\nis used, but it is to cut the prisoner's bonds, and he walks away with\nhead hung down, never more to take arms against his countrymen. And glad\nare they all at this, when the husband is brought home--not dead, though\nleft among the corpses at Paoli, but alive and certain of recovery, with\nsuch nursing as his wife will give him. After tears of joy have been shed\nshe tells him the story of the Bible judgment, and all the members of the\nfamily fall on their knees in thanksgiving that the blood of Dabney is\nnot upon their heads.\n\n\n\n\nPARRICIDE OF THE WISSAHICKON\n\nFarmer Derwent and his four stout sons set off on an autumn night for the\nmeeting of patriots at a house on the Wissahickon,--a meeting that bodes\nno good to the British encamped in Philadelphia, let the red-coats laugh\nas they will at the rag-tag and bob-tail that are joining the army of Mr.\nWashington in the wilds of the Skippack. The farmer sighs as he thinks\nthat his younger son alone should be missing from the company, and\nwonders for the thousandth time what has become of the boy. They sit by a\nrock that juts into the road to trim their lantern, and while they talk\ntogether they are startled by an exclamation. It is from Ellen, the\nadopted daughter of Derwent and the betrothed of his missing son. On the\nnight that the boy stole away from his father's house he asked her to\nmeet him in this place in a year's time, and the year is up to-night.\n\nBut it is not to meet him that she is hastening now: she has heard that\nthe British have learned of the patriot gathering and will try to make\nprisoners of the company. Even as she tells of this there is a sound to\nthe southward: the column is on the march. The farmer's eye blazes with\nrage and hate. \"Boys,\" he says, \"yonder come those who intend to kill us.\nLet them taste of their own warfare. Stand here in the shadow and fire as\nthey pass this rock.\"\n\nThe troopers ride on, chuckling over their sure success, when there is a\nreport of rifles and four of the red-coats are in the dust. The\nsurvivors, though taken by surprise, prove their courage by halting to\nanswer the volley, and one of them springs from his saddle, seizes\nDerwent, and plunges a knife into his throat. The rebel falls. His blood\npools around him. The British are successful, for two of the young men\nare bound and two of them have fallen, and there is a cheer of victory,\nbut the trooper with the knife in his hand does not raise his voice. He\nbends above the farmer as still as one dead, until his captain claps him\non the shoulder. As he rises, the prisoners start in wonder, for the face\nthey see in the lantern-light is that of their brother, yet strange in\nits haggardness and its smear of blood on the cheek. The girl runs from\nher hiding-place with a cry, but stands in horror when her foot touches\nthe gory pool in the road. The trooper opens his coat and offers her a\nlocket. It contains her picture, and he has worn it above his heart for a\nyear, but she lets it fall and sinks down, moaning. The soldier tears off\nhis red coat, tramples it in the dust, then vaulting to his saddle he\nplunges into the river, fords it, and crashes through the underbrush on\nthe other side. In a few minutes he has reached the summit of a rock that\nrises nearly a hundred feet above the stream. The horse halts at the\nedge, but on a fierce stab of the spur into his flank he takes the leap.\nWith a despairing yell the traitor and parricide goes into eternity.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLACKSMITH AT BRANDYWINE\n\nTerrible in the field at Brandywine was the figure of a man armed only\nwith a hammer, who plunged into the ranks of the enemy, heedless of his\nown life, yet seeming to escape their shots and sabre cuts by magic, and\nwith Thor strokes beat them to the earth. But yesterday war had been to\nhim a distant rumor, a thing as far from his cottage at Dilworth as if it\nhad been in Europe, but he had revolted at a plot that he had overheard\nto capture Washington and had warned the general. In revenge the Tories\nhad burned his cottage, and his wife and baby had perished in the flames.\nAll day he had sat beside the smoking ruins, unable to weep, unable to\nthink, unable almost to suffer, except dumbly, for as yet he could not\nunderstand it. But when the drums were heard they roused the tiger in\nhim, and gaunt with sleeplessness and hunger he joined his countrymen and\nranged like Ajax on the field. Every cry for quarter was in vain: to\nevery such appeal he had but one reply, his wife's name--Mary.\n\nNear the end of the fight he lay beside the road, his leg broken, his\nflesh torn, his life ebbing from a dozen wounds. A wagoner, hasting to\njoin the American retreat, paused to give him drink. \"I've only five\nminutes more of life in me,\" said the smith. \"Can you lift me into that\ntree and put a rifle in my hands?\" The powerful teamster raised him to\nthe crotch of an oak, and gave him the rifle and ammunition that a dying\nsoldier had dropped there. A band of red-coats came running down the\nroad, chasing some farmers. The blacksmith took careful aim; there was a\nreport, and the leader of the band fell dead. A pause; again a report\nrang out, and a trooper sprawled upon the ground. The marksman had been\nseen, and a lieutenant was urging his men to hurry on and cut him down.\nThere was a third report, and the lieutenant reeled forward into the\nroad, bleeding and cursing. \"That's for Mary,\" gasped the blacksmith. The\nrifle dropped from his hands, and he, too, sank lifeless against the\nboughs.\n\n\n\n\nFATHER AND SON\n\nIt was three soldiers, escaping from the rout of Braddock's forces, who\ncaught the alleged betrayer of their general and put him to the death.\nThey threw his purse of ill-gotten louis d'or into the river, and sent\nhim swinging from the edge of a ravine, with a vine about his neck and a\nplacard on his breast. And so they left him.\n\nTwenty years pass, and the war-fires burn more fiercely in the vales of\nPennsylvania, but, too old to fight, the schoolmaster sits at his door\nnear Chad's Ford and smokes and broods upon the past. He thinks of the\ntime when he marched with Washington, when with two wounded comrades he\nreturned along the lonely trail; then comes the vision of a blackening\nface, and he rises and wipes his brow. \"It was right,\" he mutters. \"He\nsent a thousand of his brothers to their deaths.\"\n\nGilbert Gates comes that evening to see the old man's daughter: a smooth,\npolite young fellow, but Mayland cannot like him, and after some short\ntalk he leaves him, pleading years and rheumatism, and goes to bed. But\nnot to sleep; for toward ten o'clock his daughter goes to him and urges\nhim to fly, for men are gathering near the house--Tories, she is\nsure,--and they mean no good. Laughing at her fears, but willing to\nrelieve her anxiety, the old man slips into his clothes, goes into the\ncellar, and thence starts for the barn, while the girl remains for a few\nminutes to hide the silver.\n\nHe does not go far before Gates is at his elbow with the whispered words,\n\"Into the stack-quick. They are after you.\" Mayland hesitates with\ndistrust, but the appearance of men with torches leaves no time for talk.\nWith Gilbert's help he crawls deep into the straw and is covered up.\nPresently a rough voice asks which way he has gone. Gilbert replies that\nhe has gone to the wood, but there is no need for getting into a passion,\nand that on no account would it be advisable to fire the stack. \"Won't we\nthough?\" cries one of the party. \"We'll burn the rebel out of house and\nhome,\" and thrusting his torch into the straw it is ablaze in an instant.\nThe crowd hurries away toward the wood, and does not hear the stifled\ngroan that comes out of the middle of the fire. Gates takes a paper from\nhis pocket, and, after reading it for the last time, flings it upon the\nflame. It bears the inscription, \"Isaac Gates, Traitor and Spy, hung by\nthree soldiers of his majesty's army. Isaac Mayland.\"\n\nFrom his moody contemplation he rouses with a start, for Mayland's\ndaughter is there. Her eyes are bent on a distorted thing that lies among\nthe embers, and in the dying light of the flames it seems to move. She\nstudies it close, then with a cry of pain and terror she falls upon the\nhot earth, and her senses go out, not to be regained in woful years. With\nhead low bowed, Gilbert Gates trudges away. In the fight at Brandywine\nnext day, Black Samson, a giant negro, armed with a scythe, sweeps his\nway through the red ranks like a sable figure of Time. Mayland had taught\nhim; his daughter had given him food. It is to avenge them that he is\nfighting. In the height of the conflict he enters the American ranks\nleading a prisoner--Gilbert Gates. The young man is pale, stern, and\nsilent. His deed is known, he is a spy as well as a traitor, but he asks\nno mercy. It is rumored that next day he alone, of the prisoners, was led\nto a wood and lashed by arms and legs to a couple of hickory trees that\nhad been bent by a prodigious effort and tied together by their tops. The\nlashing was cut by a rifle-ball, the trees regained their straight\nposition with a snap like whips, and that was the way Gilbert Gates came\nto his end.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENVY OF MANITOU\n\nBehind the mountains that gloom about the romantic village of Mauch\nChunk, Pennsylvania, was once a lake of clear, bright water, its winding\nloops and bays extending back for several miles. On one of its prettiest\nbits of shore stood a village of the Leni Lenape, and largest of its\nwigwams, most richly pictured without, most luxurious in its couching of\nfurs within, was that of the young chief, Onoko. This Indian was a man of\ngreat size, strength, and daring. Single-handed he had slain the bear on\nMauch Chunk [Bear Mountain], and it was no wonder that Wenonah, the\nfairest of her tribe, was flattered when he sued for her hand, and\npromptly consented to be his wife. It was Onoko's fortune in war, the\nchase, and love that roused the envy of Mitche Manitou.\n\nOne day, as the couple were floating in their shallop of bark on the calm\nlake, idly enjoying the sunshine and saying pretty things to each other,\nthe Manitou arose among the mountains. Terrible was his aspect, for the\nscowl of hatred was on his face, thunder crashed about his head, and fire\nsnapped from his eyes. Covering his right hand with his invincible magic\nmitten, he dealt a blow on the hills that made the earth shake, and rived\nthem to a depth of a thousand feet. Through the chasm thus created the\nlake poured a foaming deluge, and borne with it was the canoe of Onoko\nand Wenonah. One glance at the wrathful face in the clouds above them and\nthey knew that escape was hopeless, so, clasping each other in a close\nembrace, they were whirled away to death. Manitou strode away moodily\namong the hills, and ever since that time the Lehigh has rolled through\nthe chasm that he made. The memory of Onoko is preserved in the name of a\nglen and cascade a short distance above Mauch Chunk.\n\nIt is not well to be too happy in this world. It rouses the envy of the\ngods.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST REVEL IN PRINTZ HALL\n\n\"Young man, I'll give thee five dollars a week to be care-taker in Printz\nHall,\" said Quaker Quidd to fiddler Matthews, on an autumn evening.\n\nYoung Matthews had just been taunting the old gentleman with being afraid\nto sleep on his own domain, and as the eyes of all the tavern loungers\nwere on him he could hardly decline so flattering a proposition, so,\nafter some hemming and hawing, he said he would take the Quaker at his\nword. He played but two or three more tunes that evening, did Peter\nMatthews, and played them rather sadly; then, as Quidd had finished his\nmulled cider and departed, he took his homeward way in thoughtful mood.\nPrintz Hall stood in a lonely, weed-grown garden near Chester,\nPennsylvania, and thither repaired Peter, as next day's twilight shut\ndown, with a mattress, blanket, comestibles, his beloved fiddle, and a\nflask of whiskey. Ensconcing himself in the room that was least\ndepressing in appearance he stuffed rags into the vacant panes, lighted a\ncandle, started a blaze in the fireplace, and ate his supper.\n\n\"Not so bad a place, after all,\" mumbled Peter, as he warmed himself at\nthe fire and the flask; then, taking out his violin, he began to play.\nThe echo of his music emphasized the emptiness of the house, the damp got\ninto the strings so that they sounded tubby, and there were unintentional\nquavers in the melody whenever the trees swung against the windows and\nsplashed them with rain, or when a distant shutter fell a-creaking.\nFinally, he stirred the fire, bolted the door, snuffed his candle, took a\ncourageous pull at the liquor, flung off his coat and shoes, rolled his\nblanket around him, stretched himself on the mattress, and fell asleep.\nHe was awakened by--well, he could not say what, exactly, only he became\nsuddenly as wide awake as ever he had been in his life, and listened for\nsome sound that he knew was going to come out of the roar of the wind and\nthe slamming, grating, and whistling about the house. Yes, there it was:\na tread and a clank on the stair. The door, so tightly bolted, flew open,\nand there entered a dark figure with steeple-crowned hat, cloak,\njack-boots, sword, and corselet. The terrified fiddler wanted to howl,\nbut his voice was gone. \"I am Peter Printz, governor-general of his\nSwedish Majesty's American colonies, and builder of this house,\" said the\nfigure. \"'Tis the night of the autumnal equinox, when my friends meet\nhere for revel. Take thy fiddle and come. Play, but speak not.\"\n\nAnd whether he wished or no, Peter was drawn to follow the figure, which\nhe could make out by the phosphor gleam of it. Down-stairs they went,\ndoors swinging open before them, and along corridors that clanged to the\nstroke of the spectre's boot heels. Now they came to the ancient\nreception-room, and as they entered it Peter was dazzled. The floor was\nsmooth with wax, logs snapped in the fireplace, though the flame was\nsomewhat blue, the old hangings and portraits looked fresh, and in the\nlight of wax candles a hundred people, in the brave array of old times,\nwalked, courtesied, and seemed to laugh and talk together. As the fiddler\nappeared, every eye was turned on him in a disquieting way, and when he\naddressed himself to his bottle, from every throat came a hollow laugh.\nFinding his way to a chair he sank into it and put his instrument in\nposition. At the first note the couples took hands, and as he struck into\na jig they began to circle swiftly, leaping wondrous high.\n\nFaster went the music, for the whiskey was at work in Peter's noddle, and\nwilder grew the dance. It was as if the storm had come in through the\nwindows and was blowing these people hither and yon, around and around.\nThe fiddler vaguely wondered at himself, for he had never played so well,\nthough he had never heard the tune before. Now loomed Governor Printz in\nthe middle of the room, and extending his hand he ordered the dance to\ncease. \"Thou bast played well, fiddler,\" he said, \"and shalt be paid.\"\nThen, at his signal, came two negro men tugging at a strong box that\nPrintz unlocked. It was filled with gold pieces. \"Hold thy fiddle bag,\"\ncommanded the governor, and Peter did so, watching, open mouthed, the\ntransfer of a double handful of treasure from box to sack. Another such\nhandful followed, and another. At the fourth Peter could no longer\ncontain himself. He forgot the injunction not to speak, and shouted\ngleefully, \"Lord Harry! Here's luck!\"\n\nThere was a shriek of demon laughter, the scene was lost in darkness, and\nPeter fell insensible. In the morning a tavern-haunting friend, anxious\nto know if Peter had met with any adventure, entered the house and went\ncautiously from room to room, calling on the watcher to show himself.\nThere was no response. At last he stumbled on the whiskey bottle, empty,\nand knew that Peter must be near. Sure enough, there he lay in the great\nroom, with dust and mould thick on everything, and his fiddle smashed\ninto a thousand pieces. Peter on being awakened looked ruefully about\nhim, then sprang up and eagerly demanded his money. \"What money?\" asked\nhis friend. The fiddler clutched at his green bag, opened it, shook it;\nthere was nothing. Nor was there any delay in Peter's exit from that\nmansion, and when, twenty-four hours after, the house went up in flames,\nhe averred that the ghosts had set it afire, and that he knew where they\nbrought their coals from.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWO RINGS\n\nGabrielle de St. Pierre, daughter of the commandant of Fort Le Boeuf,\nnow--Waterford, Pennsylvania, that the French had setup on the Ohio\nRiver, was Parisian by birth and training, but American by choice, for\nshe had enjoyed on this lonesome frontier a freedom equal to that of the\nbig-handed, red-faced half-breeds, and she was as wild as an Indian in\nher sports. Returning from a hunt, one day, she saw three men advancing\nalong the trail, and, as it was easy to see that they were not Frenchmen,\nher guide slipped an arrow to the cord and discharged it; but Gabrielle\nwas as quick as he, for she struck the missile as it was leaving the bow\nand it quivered harmlessly into a beech. The younger of the men who were\nadvancing--he was Harry Fairfax, of Virginia--said to his chief, \"Another\nescape for you, George. Heaven sent one of its angels to avert that\nstroke.\"\n\nWashington, for it was he, answered lightly, and, as no other hostile\ndemonstrations were made, the new-comers pressed on to the fort, where\nSt. Pierre received them cordially, though he knew that their errand was\nto claim his land on behalf of the English and urge the French to retire\nto the southwest. The days that were spent in futile negotiation passed\nall too swiftly for Fairfax, for he had fallen in love with Gabrielle.\nShe would not consent to a betrothal until time had tried his affection,\nbut as a token of friendship she gave him a stone circlet of Indian\nmanufacture, and received in exchange a ring that had been worn by the\nmother of Fairfax.\n\nAfter the diplomats had returned the English resolved to enforce their\ndemand with arms, and Fairfax was one of the first to be despatched to\nthe front.\n\nEarly in the campaign his company engaged the enemy near the Ohio River,\nand in the heat of battle he had time to note and wonder at the strange\nconduct of one of the French officers, a mere stripling, who seemed more\nconcerned to check the fire of his men than to secure any advantage in\nthe fight. Presently the French gave way, and with a cheer the English\nran forward to claim the field, the ruder spirits among them at once\nbeginning to plunder the wounded. A cry for quarter drew Fairfax with a\nbound to the place whence it came, and, dashing aside a pilfering\nsoldier, he bent above a slight form that lay extended on the earth: the\nyoung officer whose strange conduct had so surprised him. In another\nmoment he recognized his mother's ring on one of the slender hands. It\nwas Gabrielle. Her father had perished in the fight, but she had saved\nher lover.\n\nIn due time she went with her affianced to his home in Williamsburg,\nVirginia, and became mistress of the Fairfax mansion. But she never liked\nthe English, as a people, and when, in later years, two sturdy sons of\nhers asked leave to join the Continental army, she readily consented.\n\n\n\n\nFLAME SCALPS OF THE CHARTIERS\n\nBefore Pittsburg had become worthy to be called a settlement, a white man\nrowed his boat to the mouth of Chartiers creek, near that present city.\nHe was seeking a place in which to make his home, and a little way\nup-stream, where were timber, water, and a southern slope, he marked a\n\"tomahawk claim,\" and set about clearing the land. Next year his wife,\ntwo children, and his brother came to occupy the cabin he had built, and\nfor a long time all went happily, but on returning from a long hunt the\nbrothers found the little house in ashes and the charred remains of its\noccupants in the ruins. Though nearly crazed by this catastrophe they\nknew that their own lives were in hourly peril, and they wished to live\nuntil they could punish the savages for this crime. After burying the\nbodies, they started east across the hills, leaving a letter on birch\nbark in a cleft stick at the mouth of Chartiers creek, in which the\ntragedy was recounted.\n\nThis letter was afterward found by trappers. The men themselves were\nnever heard from, and it is believed that they, too, fell at the hands of\nthe Indians. Old settlers used to affirm that on summer nights the cries\nof the murdered innocents could be heard in the little valley where the\ncabin stood, and when storms were coming up these cries were often\nblended with the yells of savages. More impressive are the death\nlights--the will-o'-the-wisps--that wander over the scene of the tragedy,\nand up and down the neighboring slopes. These apparitions are said to be\nthe spirits of husband and wife seeking each other, or going together in\nsearch of their children; but some declare that in their upward streaming\nrays it can readily be seen that they are the scalps of the slain. Two of\nthem have a golden hue, and these are the scalps of the children. From\nbeneath them drops of red seem to distil on the grass and are found to\nhave bedewed the flowers on the following morning.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CONSECRATION OF WASHINGTON\n\nIn 1773 some of the Pietist monks were still living in their rude\nmonastery whose ruins are visible on the banks of the Wissahickon. Chief\namong these mystics was an old man who might have enjoyed the wealth and\ndistinction warranted by a title had he chosen to remain in Germany, but\nhe had forsworn vanities, and had come to the new world to pray, to rear\nhis children, and to live a simple life. Some said he was an alchemist,\nand many believed him to be a prophet. The infrequent wanderer beside the\nromantic river had seen lights burning in the window of his cell and had\nheard the solemn sound of song and prayer. On a winter night, when snow\nlay untrodden about the building and a sharp air stirred in the trees\nwith a sound like harps, the old man sat in a large room of the place,\nwith his son and daughter, waiting. For a prophecy had run that on that\nnight, at the third hour of morning, the Deliverer would present himself.\nIn a dream was heard a voice, saying, \"I will send a deliverer to the new\nworld who shall save my people from bondage, as my Son saved them from\nspiritual death.\" The night wore on in prayer and meditation, and the\nhours tolled heavily across the frozen wilderness, but, at the stroke of\nthree, steps were heard in the snow and the door swung open. The man who\nentered was of great stature, with a calm, strong face, a powerful frame,\nand a manner of dignity and grace.\n\n\"Friends, I have lost my way,\" said he. \"Can you direct me?\"\n\nThe old man started up in a kind of rapture. \"You have not lost your\nway,\" he cried, \"but found it. You are called to a great mission. Kneel\nat this altar and receive it.\"\n\nThe stranger looked at the man in surprise and a doubt passed over his\nface. \"Nay, I am not mad,\" urged the recluse, with a slight smile.\n\"Listen: to-night, disturbed for the future of your country, and unable\nto sleep, you mounted horse and rode into the night air to think on the\nquestion that cannot be kept out of your mind, Is it lawful for the\nsubject to draw sword against his king? The horse wandered, you knew and\ncared not whither, until he brought you here.\"\n\n\"How do you know this?\" asked the stranger, in amazement.\n\n\"Be not surprised, but kneel while I anoint thee deliverer of this land.\"\n\nMoved and impressed, the man bowed his knee before one of his fellows for\nthe first time in his life. The monk touched his finger with oil, and\nlaying it on the brow of the stranger said, \"Do you promise, when the\nhour shall strike, to take the sword in defence of your country? Do you\npromise, when you shall see your soldiers suffer for bread and fire, and\nwhen the people you have led to victory shall bow before you, to remember\nthat you are but the minister of God in the work of a nation's freedom?\"\n\nWith a new light burning in his eyes, the stranger bent his head.\n\n\"Then, in His name, I consecrate thee deliverer of this oppressed people.\nWhen the time comes, go forth to victory, for, as you are faithful, be\nsure that God will grant it. Wear no crown, but the blessings and honor\nof a free people, save this.\" As he finished, his daughter, a girl of\nseventeen, came forward and put a wreath of laurel on the brow of the\nkneeling man. \"Rise,\" continued the prophet, \"and take my hand, which I\nhave never before offered to any man, and accept my promise to be\nfaithful to you and to this country, even if it cost my life.\"\n\nAs he arose, the son of the priest stepped to him and girt a sword upon\nhis hip, and the old man held up his hands in solemn benediction. The\nstranger laid his hand on the book that stood open on the altar and\nkissed the hilt of his sword. \"I will keep the faith,\" said he. At dawn\nhe went his way again, and no one knew his name, but when the fires of\nbattle lighted the western world America looked to him for its\ndeliverance from tyranny. Years later it was this spot that he revisited,\nalone, to pray, and here Sir William Howe offered to him, in the name of\nhis king, the title of regent of America. He took the parchment and\nground it into a rag in the earth at his feet. For this was Washington.\nMARION\n\nBlooming and maidenly, though she dressed in leather and used a rifle\nlike a man, was Marion, grand-daughter of old Abraham, who counted his\nyears as ninety, and who for many of those years had lived with his books\nin the tidy cabin where the Youghiogheny and Monongahela come together.\nThis place stood near the trail along which Braddock marched to his\ndefeat, and it was one of the stragglers from this command, a bony\nhalf-breed with red hair, called Red Wolf, that knocked at the door and\nasked for water. Seeing no one but Marion he ventured in, and would have\ntried not only to make free with the contents of the little house but\nwould have kissed the girl as well, only that she seized her rifle and\nheld him at bay. Still, the fellow would have braved a shot, had not a\nyoung officer in a silver-laced uniform glanced through the open door in\npassing and discovered the situation. He doffed his chapeau to Marion,\nthen said sternly to the rogue, \"Retire. Your men are waiting for you.\"\nRed Wolf slunk away, and Washington, for it was he, begged that he might\nrest for a little time under the roof.\n\nThis request was gladly complied with, both by the girl and by her\ngrandfather, who presently appeared, and the fever that threatened the\nyoung soldier was averted by a day of careful nursing. Marion's innate\nrefinement, her gentleness, her vivacity, could not fail to interest\nWashington, and the vision of her face was with him for many a day. He\npromised to return, then he rode forward and caught up with the troops.\nHe survived the battle in which seven hundred of his comrades were shot\nor tomahawked and scalped. One Indian fired at him eleven times, and five\nof the bullets scratched him; after that the savage forbore, believing\nthat the officer was under Manitou's protection. When the retreating\ncolumn approached the place where Marion lived he hastened on in advance\nto see her. The cabin was in ashes. He called, but there was no answer.\nWhen he turned away, with sad and thoughtful mien, a brown tress was\nwrapped around his finger, and in his cabinet he kept it until his death,\nfolded in a paper marked \"Marion, July 11, 1755.\"","title":"Myths and Legends of Our Own Land \u2014 Volume 03 : on and near the Delaware","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":10009}