fanning her heated brow. She stood erect, a
queen in her dignity and beauty. Never had Mr. and Mrs. Newville
dreamed that there was such pent-up fire in her soul, such energy,
fearlessness, and instinctive comprehension of justice and right.
Captain and Mrs. Brandon, Berinthia, and all around gazed upon her
wonderingly and with admiration.

The fire was sweeping on,--leaping from building to building, licking
up houses, stables, and workshop, reaching the meetinghouse, kindling
the shingles on its roof, the clapboards upon its walls, bursting from
doors and windows, climbing the spire to the gilded vane, burning till
beams and timbers gave way; then came the crash,--a single stroke of
the bell tolling as it were a requiem.

Under the cloud from the burning town the scarlet lines once more
advanced,--not towards the screen of hay, but in the direction of the
redoubt. With the glass Ruth saw the manly figure she had seen before,
seemingly receiving instructions from his superior officer, and
running towards the threatened point of attack. The scarlet lines
were mounting the breastwork. Men were firing in each other's faces;
thrusting with the bayonet. She could see a stalwart provincial in his
shirt-sleeves beat out the brains of a Britisher with the butt of his
musket, and the next moment go down with a bayonet through his heart.
The manly figure was in the thick of the melee,--a half dozen redcoats
rushing upon him. His sword was flashing in the sunlight as he parried
their bayonets, keeping them at bay. Guns flashed, and the white
powder-cloud shut out the scene. When it cleared, he had gone down,
and the redcoats were swinging their hats. Their shout of victory came
across the waters. Those around saw Ruth clasp her hand upon her
heart.

"They are beaten, and he is shot!" she cried, sinking into Berinthia's
arms.

"Who's shot?" her mother asked. There was no answer from the quivering
lips.

"The excitement is too much for her," said Mrs. Newville, as they bore
her to Berinthia's chamber.

XX.

WHEN THE TIDE WAS GOING OUT.

Tom Brandon, lying upon the green grass where the provincials had
halted after the retreat, recalled the events of the day with his
fellow soldiers, especially the last struggle. He had fired away his
powder, as had many others. He had no bayonet, and could only defend
himself with the butt of his gun. He remembered how bravely Doctor
Warren behaved, telling the men to keep cool;