hat's good advice," said Morgan, who chanced to overhear the
doctor's words and recognized Rodney. "You report to Colonel
Washington and tell him Morgan has ordered you home to Charlottesville.
This war has eaten up too many of my Rangers already." With that
parting advice he mounted his horse and rode away.

There remained for Rodney nothing to do but obey orders, though he was
loath to leave. The spirit of victory was in his soul. That had been a
glorious battle and the right had triumphed. The bloodhounds had put
their tails between their legs and fled. He did not realize that they
would rally and soon be close upon the heels of the retreating
Americans, and that nothing would save the latter but the winter
floods which were to fill the rivers and delay the British.

Through a land ravaged by war, over roads deep with mud, where might
be found only the poorest accommodations for man or beast, Rodney
Allison rode homeward. His arm give him little trouble except the fear
it might always be stiff. The nearer he came to home the more he
longed to be back with the army. It troubled him to think that in the
victories he was sure would follow he could not have a part.

"I'm never able to win promotion," he said to himself, rather
bitterly. The picture of that winter night, the witching face of
Lisbeth and her mocking laugh as she rode away, kept recurring to his
mind. What a girl she had been, the best playmate even a boy might
wish; always ready for a lark, daring, mischievous, with wit as keen
as a blade and quick as a flash. He could not think of her as dead,
and the bitterness of his heart at the trick she had played upon him
troubled him now as he looked back upon it. "She didn't know what she
was doing, did she, Nat, old boy?"

Nat had been plodding along but now lifted his head with some show of
interest. The hard life he had led since the day Mogridge had stolen
him had not quite broken his spirit, though he was gaunt and worn with
cruel service.

"I've got you, Nat, if I haven't got a promotion, and of the two I'd
rather have you," said his rider, patting his shoulder.

The lad was nearing his long journey's end. In the distance were the
mountains. A few miles further and Monticello would be visible. Over
those mountains lay what seemed to the lad a great world. The life he
had lived in it seemed like another life and Ahneota, little Louis,
the Indian village and all, but the fancies of a dream. Sometime he