like virtues,
combined with a generous and amiable temper, had rendered him a
cherished favorite with the army. His death served still more to
increase the exacerbation of the conquerors against the conquered.

The sun was yet an hour high when the battle was done. The Whigs were
formed in two lines on the ridge of the mountain; and the prisoners,
more numerous than their captors, having laid down their arms, were
drawn up in detached columns on the intervening ground. There were many
sullen and angry glances exchanged, during this period of suspense,
between victors and vanquished; and it was with a fearful rankling of
inward wrath, that many of the Whigs detected, in the columns of the
prisoners, some of their bitterest persecutors.

This spirit was partially suppressed in the busy occupation that
followed. Preparations were directed to be made for the night-quarters
of the army; and the whole host was, accordingly, ordered to march to
the valley. The surgeons of each party were already fully employed in
their vocation. The bodies of the wounded were strewed around; and, for
the protection of such as were not in a condition to be moved, shelters
were made of the boughs of trees, and fires kindled to guard them from
the early frost of the season. All the rest retired slowly to the
appointed encampment.

Whilst Campbell was intent upon these cares, a messenger came to summon
him to a scene of unexpected interest. He was informed that a gentleman,
not attached to the army, had been dangerously wounded in the fight, and
now lay at the further extremity of the mountain ridge. It was added
that he earnestly desired an interview with the commanding officer.
Campbell lost no time in attending to the request.

Upon repairing to the spot, his attention was drawn to a stranger who
lay upon the ground. His wan and haggard cheek, and restless eye, showed
that he suffered acute pain; and the blood upon his cloak, which had
been spread beneath him, indicated the wound to have been received in
the side. A private soldier of the British army was his only attendant.
To Campbell's solicitous and kind inquiry, he announced himself, in a
voice that was almost over-mastered by his bodily anguish, to be Philip
Lindsay, of Virginia.

"You behold," he said, "an unhappy father in pursuit of his children."
Then, after a pause, he continued, "My daughter Mildred, I have been
told, is near me: I would see her, and quickly."

"God have merc