at star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

It was sung in strong, clear tones as I shall never hear it sung again;
and the echoes of many voices, and the swelling music of that old church
bell, floated down the Neosho Valley, mingling with the rushing of the
turbulent waters.

It was Cam Gentry's plan, this weapon of light and song. The Lord did
have a work for him to do, as Dr. Hemingway had said.

"Boys," he had counselled us under the oak, "we can't match 'em in a
pitched battle. They're armed an' ready, and you ain't and you can't do
nothing in the dark. But let every house be ready, just as Phil has
planned. Warn them quietly, and when the church bell rings, let every
winder be full of light, every door wide open, and everybody sing."

He could roar bass himself to be heard across the State line, and that
night he fairly boomed with song.

"They're dirty cowards, and can't work only in the dark and secret
quiet. Give 'em light and song. Let 'em know we are wide awake and not
afraid, an' if Gideon ever had the Midianites on the hike, you'll have
them pisen Copperheads goin'. They'll never dast to show a coil, the
sarpents! cause that's not the way they fight; an' they'll be wholly
onprepared, and surprised."

Just before the ringing of the signal bell, the boys had met again by
appointment under the tavern oak. Two things we had agreed upon when we
met there first. One was a pledge of secrecy as to the part of young
Tell and Jim in our work and to the part of Mapleson and Conlow in the
plot, for the sake of their boys, who were loyal to the town. The other
was to say nothing of Jean's act. Marjie was the light of Springvale,
and we knew what the news would mean. We must first save the homes,
quietly and swiftly. Other calamities would follow fast enough. In the
darkness now, Bud Anderson put both arms around me.

"Phil," he whispered, "you're my king. You muth go to her mother now. In
the morning, your Aunt Candathe will come to her. Maybe in the daylight
we can find Marjie. He can't get far, unleth the river--"

He held me tight in his arms, that manly, tender-hearted boy. Then I
staggered away like one in a dream toward the Whately house. We had not
yet warned Mrs. Whately, for we knew her home was to be spared, and our
hands were full of what must be done on the instant. Time never seemed
so precious to me as in those dreadful minutes when we roused that
slee