traveled towards the mountain top, close in the rear of Campbell's
line. But when the troops had recoiled before the frequent
charges of the royalists, finding his station, at best, but
that of an inactive spectator, he made no scruple of deserting
his companions and trying his fortune on the field in such form
of adventure as best suited his temper. With no other weapon
than his customary rifle, he stood his ground when others
retreated, and saw the ebb and flow of "flight and chase" swell
round him, according to the varying destiny of the day. In
these difficulties it was his good fortune to escape unhurt, a
piece of luck that may, perhaps, be attributed to the coolness
with which he either galloped over an adversary or around
him, as the emergency rendered most advisable.
In the midst of this busy occupation, at a moment when one of the refluxes of battle brought him almost to the summit, he descried a small party of British dragoons, stationed some distance in the rear of Ferguson's line, whose detached position seemed to infer some duty unconnected with the general fight. In the midst of these he thought he recognized the figure and dress of one familiar to his eye. The person thus singled out by the sergeant's glance stood bareheaded upon a projecting mass of rock, apparently looking with an eager gaze towards the distant combat. No sooner did the conjecture that this might be Arthur Butler flash across his thought than he turned his steed back upon the path by which he had ascended and rode with haste towards the Rangers.
"Stephen Foster," he said, as he galloped up to the lieutenant and drew his attention by a tap of the hand upon his shoulder, "I have business for you, man—you are but wasting your time here—pick me out a half dozen of your best fellows and bring them with you after me. Quick—Stephen—quick!"
The lieutenant of the Rangers collected the desired party and rode after the sergeant, who now conducted this handful
