bsent, and the wolf is prowling round the fold.
Far from finding relief, however, they only increased each other's
terrors. Each man looked ruefully in his neighbor's face, in search of
encouragement, but only found in its woebegone lineaments a confirmation
of his own dismay. Not a word now was to be heard of conquering Great
Britain, not a whisper about the sovereign virtues of economy--while the
old women heightened the general gloom by clamorously bewailing their
fate, and calling for protection on St. Nicholas and Peter Stuyvesant.

Oh, how did they bewail the absence of the lion-hearted Peter! and how
did they long for the comforting presence of Antony Van Corlear! Indeed a
gloomy uncertainty hung over the fate of these adventurous heroes. Day
after day had elapsed since the alarming message from the governor without
bringing any further tidings of his safety. Many a fearful conjecture was
hazarded as to what had befallen him and his loyal squire. Had they not
been devoured alive by the cannibals of Marblehead and Cape Cod? Had they
not been put to the question by the great council of Amphictyons? Had they
not been smothered in onions by the terrible men of Pyquag? In the midst
of this consternation and perplexity, when horror, like a mighty
nightmare, sat brooding upon the little, fat, plethoric city of New
Amsterdam, the ears of the multitude were suddenly startled by the distant
sound of a trumpet;--it approached--it grew louder and louder--and now it
resounded at the city gate. The public could not be mistaken in the
well-known sound; a shout of joy burst from their lips as the gallant
Peter, covered with dust, and followed by his faithful trumpeter, came
galloping into the marketplace.

The first transports of the populace having subsided, they gathered round
the honest Antony, as he dismounted, overwhelming him with greetings and
congratulations. In breathless accents, he related to them the marvelous
adventures through which the old governor and himself had gone, in making
their escape from the clutches of the terrible Amphictyons. But though the
Stuyvesant manuscript, with its customary minuteness where anything
touching the great Peter is concerned, is very particular as to the
incidents of this masterly retreat, the state of the public affairs will
not allow me to indulge in a full recital thereof. Let it suffice to say,
that, while Peter Stuyvesant was anxiously revolving in his mind how he
could make g