My friend rose, struck his palm with the pipe-bowl, and put up his knife.
"Ef ye're goin' t' tek me," said he, "better begin right off, er ye won't hev time 'fore breakfust."
Then he clapped the moose-horn to his lips and blew a mighty blast. It made the two men jump and set the near thicket reeling. The weird barytone went off moaning in the far wastes of timber. Its rush of echoes had begun. I put my hand to my sabre, for there in the edge of the gloom I saw a thing that stirred me to the marrow. The low firs were moving toward us, root and branch, their twigs falling. Gods of war! it made my hair stand for a jiffy to see the very brush take feet and legs. On sea or land I never saw a thing that gave me so odd a feeling. We stood for a breath or two, then started back, our sabres flashing; for, as the twigs fell, we saw they had been decorating a squad of the British. They came on. I struck at the lantern, but too late, for his Lordship had swung it away. He stumbled, going to his knees; the lantern hit the earth and went out. I had seen the squad
