“Keep right on, you’ll bloom right soon,” said Nick with a laugh in which all joined.

“Keep her goin’, Chevalier,” said another.

“Forsooth, my merry men, Puritans, Roundheads, I’ll try:

“When cavalier doth draw his steel
The ranks fall back and yeomen kneel,
For that is as they should.
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The pikes may gleam in thousands strong,
But men who ride shall right the wrong.
For throne and home they stood.”

“Sure they stood not on the order o’ goin’, or I’ve misread me history,” laughed Nick.

“Ho, ho! my merry figure-head at the prow, this from you, et tu Brute! I feared the lines would not scan, but it’s not expected that every man in the crew must be an Adonis because the figure-head of the craft is a thing of beauty. One failure begets another, ’tis said, so perhaps you’ll like this no better:

“Oh, the paddle, the knife and the trusty gun,
And a land in which to roam;
The stars at night for my beacon light,
Wildwood for my home;
What care I for the gay cavalier,
His plumes and his flashing steel?
He rides not here in the grassy mere.
In grateful shade of the forest glade
We laugh at those who kneel.”

“Ah! but that’s worse than the first. I yield the palm of song to him who goes before me.”

This bantering was interrupted by a stalwart man sitting in the prow of a canoe which overtook them at this point. He was as fine a specimen of rugged manhood as all the border could produce, being over six feet in height, of commanding figure and boundless energy and courage. He was Daniel Morgan and, laughing as he spoke, he said: “I’ve heard of hunting Indians with fife and drum, but charmin’ ’em with song is something new, I reckon.”