CHAPTER XXIV.
DEATH OF THE SPY.—A REVELATION.
It was thirty-three years after the interview which we have just related that an American army was once more arrayed against the troops of England; but the scene was transferred from the banks of the Hudson to those of the Niagara.[135]
It was the evening of the 25th of July of that bloody year, when two young officers were seen standing on the table-rock, contemplating the great cataract with an interest that seemed to betray that they were gazing for the first time at the wonder of the western world. A profound silence was observed by each, until the companion of the officer suddenly started, and pointing eagerly with his sword into the abyss[136] beneath, exclaimed:
“See, Wharton, there is a man crossing in the very eddies of the cataract, and in a skiff no bigger than an egg-shell.”
“He has a knapsack—it is probably a soldier,” returned the other. “Let us meet him at the ladder, Mason, and learn his tidings.”
Some time was expended in reaching the spot where the adventurer was intercepted. Contrary to the expectations of the young soldiers, he proved to be a man far advanced in life, and evidently no follower of the camp.
A few words of salutation, and, on the part of the young men, of surprise that one so aged should venture so near the whirlpools of the cataract, were exchanged, when the old man inquired, with a voice that began to manifest the tremor of age, the news from the contending armies.
“We whipped the red-coats here the other day, among the grass on the Chippewa[137] plains,” said the one who was called Mason.