“Good news, too, you said, O’Moore,” said Philip Morgan. “Come, now, tell us what it is.”
The other boys had risen from their seats upon the benches, and all crowded eagerly about the grim looking dragoon.
“What’s the news?” they clamored. “Tell us the news.”
“Ye’ll hear it in another moment,” said O’Moore, a smile flickering on his lips. “Here comes Master Ethan now.”
The sober looking gentleman in black, had just waved the boy upon the horse delightedly away; the lad touched his mount with the spur and dashed down the street toward the state house. Mr. Hancock stood upon the low stone steps in the midst of a group of members engaged in earnest talk, when the bay was pulled up sharply, and the boy upon his back called in a voice that trembled with excitement:
“Mr. Hancock.”
That gentleman raised his brows in some little surprise at this; then his face wrinkled in a smile and he nodded his recognition.
“News from the north!” cried the boy as he swung a bulky saddle packet over his head.
The expression of every man present changed instantly; every voice was hushed, every face was strained and anxious. For weeks they had been swayed, pendulum-like, between hope and fear; and now the result was to be known.
“Burgoyne,” shouted the boy, as he swung himself exultantly from his horse, “has surrendered to General Gates at Saratoga.”