“He is but a few miles beyond you,” I replied, “and he will come no farther south. There has been a great battle and we held him fast.”
They gave a cheer, and some threw up their hats. To understand our feelings one must remember that we had been very near the edge of the ice, and more than once thought we would go over.
All their weariness gone, these long-legged Southerners shouldered their rifles and marched on to join the great belt of strong arms and stout hearts that was forming around the doomed Burgoyne and his army. As they passed, Sergeant Whitestone took his pipe out of his mouth and said:
“Good boys!”
Which was short, but which was much for him.
I watched their dusty backs as they tramped up the valley.
“You seem to admire them,” said some one over my shoulder.
“It is they and their fellows who will take Burgoyne, Mistress Catherine,” I replied.
“They can’t stand before the British bayonet,” she said.