Upon this the horseman, thinking it best for him to see his master first, drove the spurs into his horse and galloped away, uttering vows of vengeance.
The little boy who had alarmed Mrs. Pattison was a lad of fourteen,—the son of a neighbor who was in Washington’s army.
Sitting one day under the trees, with the little Pattisons, talking indignantly of the “British thieves,” he saw a light-horseman ride up toward a farm-house just across the pond. He guessed at once what the man was after. He tried to signal the farmer, but in vain.
“They are pressing horses,” cried Charlie; “they always ride that way when stealing horses.”
He thought of his father’s beautiful colt, his own pet.
“Fleetwood shall not go!” said he.
Running as fast as he could to the barn, he leaped on to his back, and started for the woods.
The red-coat saw him, and, putting his spurs into his horse, rising in the saddle and shouting, he tore down the road at headlong speed.
Charlie’s mother rushed to the door. She saw her little son galloping towards the woods with his murderous enemy close upon his heels. Her heart beat fearfully, and she gave one great cry of prayer as her brave little boy dashed into the thick woods, and out of sight, still hotly pursued by the soldier.
The trees were close-set and the branches low. Charlie laid down along the horse’s neck to escape being swept off. He cheered on, with low cries, the wild colt, who stretched himself full length at every leap.