“But what, sir? Speak out.”
“We are led to expect one, General. Last night, it seems, that one of the Indian scouts was murdered in sight of our advanced posts. My predecessor warned me. A man on a black horse galloped by, and flames of fire seemed to come from his mouth, they say. The moon was up, and this Indian fired at the horseman, and then turned and ran in. The horseman followed him, changing into the likeness of—I only tell it as I was told, General—of the devil himself. Within fifty feet of this reserve he overtook the Indian, and pierced him with a javelin. Then came a red flash of fire, and the apparition threw the dead Indian over his saddle, and fled like the wind, laughing in tremendous tones.”
“Did the sentries fire at him?”
“Yes, sir. They sent a regular volley after him, but he only laughed louder and disappeared into the woods.”
Sir John Burgoyne remained, silently musing over this story, but he made no comment. He was, in fact, quite puzzled.
Just as he was about to speak, an exclamation from one of the soldiers caused him to look round.
Then he struck his hand on his thigh with a muttered curse.
“By heavens! there he comes again. Now let us see if he fools me a second time.”
It was indeed true. The same weird figure that has already been described, was galloping up, on a black horse, flames and smoke proceeding from his mouth, while a stream of sparks came from the muzzle of his horse. He was coming from the extreme right of the picket-line, galloping recklessly past the videttes, while shouts, cries, and shots, followed his course as he came.
Burgoyne turned to Sir Francis Clark, his favorite aid-de-camp.