wings. But they came too late. Too late for defence! Too late for vengeance!
Smoking ruins and homeless people were on every side. The helpless sick had been removed to fields and gardens, and sobbing children clung to their bewildered mothers. Those who had been nurtured in wealth knew not where to turn for bread. Their holy and beautiful temple, where they had worshipped God, was in ashes. And Benedict Arnold had done it. Returning from a predatory excursion on the shores of Virginia, he had made this visit to his native State. Here were old friends with whom he had held early intercourse. By them he was recognized, seated on his horse, and giving orders. He even ventured to take some refreshment in the house of a former acquaintance, but bade the flames enwrap the roof as he rose from the table. He expressed a wish that it were possible to reach Norwich, that he might there burn at least the abode in which he was born. Instinct, however, protected him from this exposure, doubtless assuring him that the beautiful region which gave him birth would feel it its duty to provide him a grave.
But it was on the opposite side of the river that the most fearful carnage marked his career. There, Fort Griswold, which had been taken by sudden siege, after such brave resistance that the traitor general was blamed by his adopted realm for the large loss of officers and soldiers, became the scene of reckless de-
