“Who are you, then?” asked the American, starting.
“A friend to the cause. Let that suffice,” said the stranger in his deep, hollow voice, dropping his cloak so as to conceal his lantern. “I found Benedict in the hands of the Mohawks, dead and scalped. I killed them and brought his letter. Now farewell. Whatever you see to-night do not wonder. It bodes no ill, save to the enemy.”
He turned and vanished in the thick darkness that had now fallen over fort and forest, and Gansevoort slowly and thoughtfully left the spot and re-entered the fort.
A few minutes later, he was reading aloud to his officers the welcome letter of Schuyler, and gladness diffused itself in every heart.
The star that rose in the east at sunset was high in the zenith over the besiegers’ camp, and the Indians were slumbering around their camp-fires, while the nodding picket sentry hardly kept awake on his post, when the loud blast of a horn echoed through the silent arches of the forest, followed by a chorus of yells and cries that roused every one in an instant.
Bewildered and half-awake, Tory and Indian scrambled up to their feet, and the English General rushed out of his tent, half-dressed, to know the meaning of the outcry.
Two Indians, yelling as they ran, were coming in from the outposts at headlong speed, and their cries seemed to spread a panic among all the neighboring savages, for wherever they were heard, Mohawk and Oneida, Seneca and Tuscarora, alike joined the swelling mob that came rushing through the camp.
“The rebels! the rebels are coming! Run! Run!” was the cry that was speedily taken up, by white and red alike, when they heard the alarm more plainly.
Although not a foeman was to be seen, there were sounds of a trampling in the woods, the snapping of sticks and an occasional shout in the distance, which gave color to the panic.