icers cannot persuade the men
to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron
man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But
look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here,
crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon
his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he
lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living
fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts
toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black
steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he
falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on towards the
fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec!
come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the
rock. Now, British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens
and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry
if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke
clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls
dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for
quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting
yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he
falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball.

Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then
bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it
bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the
storming of Quebec. The rider of the black horse was Benedict Arnold.

SAILING BEYOND SEAS

JEAN INGELOW

Methought the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig's sails unfurl'd;
I said: "I will sail to my love this night,
At the other side of the world."
I stepp'd aboard--we sail'd so fast--
The sun shot up from the bourn;
But a dove that perch'd upon the mast
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
O fair dove! O fond dove!
And dove with the white, white breast--
Let me alone, the dream is my own,
And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill,
Feeding his sheep for aye;
I look'd in his hut, but all was still,
My love was gone away.
I went to gaze in the forest creek,
And the dov