Occasionally, however, the distant report of a heavy gun was followed by the whirr and hum of a round shot, which came high over the trees, and plunged into the ground in front of the British lines.
“Artillery duel—much noise and no damage,” muttered Butler, in a tone of scorn, as he watched the scene. “If I had my will, they would try a night attack. The cursed Yankees can beat them at shooting.”
His course led him toward the rear of the British, and he was nearing the line, when something caught his quick eye, and he halted.
Three figures on horseback were riding slowly toward the American lines, in a hollow that hid them from British view, and he recognized them in an instant.
One wore the broad-plumed hat and strange, antique dress of the mysterious being that had haunted him so long, the second was Adrian Schuyler, in his gay hussar trappings, and the third was the same girl who had a month or two before caused such a shock to the generally immovable courage of the partisan.
Butler uttered a low, inexpressibly savage blasphemy, as he looked at the three figures, riding so tranquilly past, with their backs toward him, and evidently unconscious of his presence.
“Now,” he muttered, in a tone of intense eagerness, “now I have them at last, in daylight, and they shall fool me no longer. What if the girl does wear her face? He at least, I know, and hate. I have shamed him once, and now I’ll have sweet revenge, if I lose life for it.”
He turned in his saddle, and drew his sword.
“Men,” he said, in a low voice, “yonder are three rebel spies. Follow me and take them, if it costs us all our heads. Will you come?”
In a moment twenty swords were out, and the soldiers answered him with eager assent.