iding madly forward that strange soldier,
mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with
British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may
see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away
off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a
magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black
horse dashing, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle?

Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick
hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer-coats
stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee
before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing forward,
their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. At this
moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The
unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of
a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now, cowards! advance another step and
I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol
in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British
soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you
down!"

This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his
comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but
thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British
advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer.
They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch
the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown
rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke
is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling
along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start
back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That
black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused
conflict, a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped
around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.

Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider
went, there followed victory. At last, towards the setting of the sun,
the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus Heights,
must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too
steep--that death is too certain. The off