nk God!" a soft, murmuring sigh ran through all the boats and many
a bronzed and bearded cheek was wet with tears. Each man clasped hands
with his neighbour; all were deeply moved, and even as an audience
melted renders no applause, so none felt any wish to vent his deep
emotion in a cheer.

Chapter 82. Scouting for Macomb

General Macomb knew that Sir George Prevost was a cautious and
experienced commander. The loss of his fleet would certainly make a
radical change in his plans, but what change? Would he make a flank
move and dash on to Albany, or retreat to Canada, or entrench himself to
await reinforcements at Plattsburg, or try to retrieve his laurels by an
overwhelming assault on the town?

Whatever his plan, he would set about it quickly, and Macomb studied
the enemy's camp with a keen, discerning eye, but nothing suggesting a
change was visible when the sun sank in the rainy west.

It was vital that he know it at once when an important move was begun,
and as soon as the night came down, a score of the swiftest scouts were
called for. All were young men; most of them had been in McGlassin's
band. Rolf was conspicuous among them for his tall figure, but there
was a Vermont boy named Seymour, who had the reputation of being the
swiftest runner of them all.

They had two duties laid before them: first, to find whether Prevost's
army was really retreating; second, what of the regiment he sent up the
Saranac to perform the flank movement.

Each was given the country he knew best. Some went westerly, some
followed up the river. Rolf, Seymour, and Fiske, another Vermonter,
skimmed out of Plattsburg harbour in the dusk, rounded Cumberland Bend,
and at nine o'clock landed at Point au Roche, at the north side of
Treadwell's Bay.

Here they hid the canoe and agreeing to meet again at midnight, set
off in three different westerly directions to strike the highway at
different points. Seymour, as the fast racer, was given the northmost
route; Rolf took the middle. Their signals were arranged--in the woods
the barred-owl cry, by the water the loon; and they parted.

The woods seemed very solemn to Rolf that historic September night,
as he strode along at speed, stopping now and again when he thought he
heard some signal, and opened wide his mouth to relieve his ear-drums of
the heart-beat or to still the rushing of his breath.

In half an hour he reached the high-road. It was deserted. Then he heard
a cry of the