power, by transferring his paternal estate, for
the term of his own lifetime, to the homeless
widow and young daughter of his friend.
Then, with his wife's small property, and the
price of his commission, he secretly emigrated
to America. He left his family in New York,
while he went up the Hudson, purchased a
small farm, and built a house for their reception.
He was accompanied in this expedition
by an old family servitor; who, with true
Highland fidelity, clung to his unfortunate
master with exemplary devotion.

Mrs. Lindsay's heart sank within her when
she found that her new home was so far from
any settlement,—literally in the wilderness;
but she understood her husband's misanthropic
gloom, almost amounting to melancholy
madness, and did not murmur.  Yet
her forest home was very beautiful,—a small
valley-farm, surrounded by densely-wooded
hills, dark gorges, and mossy dells.  The
house was a rough, primitive-looking structure,
containing but three small apartments
and a low chamber, or rather loft.  But it
was comfortably and securely built; and,
overhung by noble trees, and overrun by
wild vines, was not unpicturesque.  Under the
tasteful care of Mrs. Lindsay, a little garden
soon sprang up around it, where, among many
strange plants, bloomed a few familiar flowers,
whose fragrance seemed to breathe of home,
like the sighs of an exile's heart.

The family at the period of their taking
refuge in the fort at Cherry Valley,
consisted of three sons and an infant daughter
(the last, born in America), the man Davie,
and a maid-servant.  Douglas, the elder
son, a lad of twelve or thirteen, was a
brave, high-spirited, somewhat self-willed
boy, tall and handsome, and the especial
pride of his mother: not alone because he
was her first-born, but because he most
vividly recalled to her heart, her husband
in his happy clays.  Angus, the second son,
was a slight, delicate, fair-haired boy,
possessing a highly sensitive and poetic nature.
Unconsciously displaying at times singular
and startling intuitions—dreaming
uncomprehended dreams, which were sometimes
strangely verified, and uttering involuntary
prophecies, which time often fulfilled—he
was always spoken of as "a strange child,"
and, for all his tender years and sweet pensive
face, was regarded with a secret, shrinking
awe, even by those nearest to him.  In truth,
the child seemed to be gifted with that
weird, mysterious faculty known as second-
sight.

Archie, the youngest son, his father's own
darling, was a sturdy, rosy-cheeked, curly-
headed boy of five.  Effie was yet at the
mother's breast, a little rosy bud of beauty,
—a fair promise of infinite joy and comfort
to her mother's saddened heart.

As I have stated, this family took refuge
in the fort, in the spring of seventeen hundred
and seventy-eight, somewhat against the will
of Captain Lindsay—who, as he remained
neutral, had little fear of the Indians—and
also of his eldest son, who fancied there was
something cowardly in flying from their
forest-home before it had been attacked.
The latter, however, was soon reconciled by
the opportunity afforded him, for the first
time for several years, of associating with
lads of his own age, of whom there were
a goodly number at the fort and settlement.
The sports and exercises of the men and
youth were entirely of a military character;
and Douglas, who had inherited martial
tastes from a long line of warlike ancestors,
and who had been instructed by his father in
military, rules and evolutions, soon became
the captain of a company of boys, armed with
formidable wooden guns, and fully equipped
as mimic soldiers.  Angus was made his
lieutenant; but this was a piece of favouritism,
the child having little taste or talent for the
profession of arms.

One bright May morning, as these young
amateur fighters were parading on the green
before the fort, they had spectators whom
they little suspected.  Upon a hill, about a
mile away, Joseph Brant had posted a large
party of his braves, where, concealed by the
thick wood, they were looking down on the
settlement.  It had been his intention to
attack the fort that night; but this grand
parade of light infantry deceived him.  At
that distance, he mistook the boys for
men, and decided to defer the attack till
he could ascertain, by his scouts, the exact
strength of the place.  In the meantime,
he moved his party northward a few miles,
to a point on the road leading from
Cherry Valley to the Mohawk river, where
he concealed them behind rocks and trees.
At this spot, the road passed through a
thick growth of evergreens, forming a
perpetual twilight, and wound along a
precipice a hundred and fifty feet high, over
which plunged a small stream in a cascade,
called by the Indians Tekaharawa.

Brant had doubtless received information
that an American officer had ridden down
from Fort Plain, on the Mohawk river, in the
morning, to visit the fort, and might be
expected to return before night.  This officer
had come to inform the garrison that a
regiment of militia would arrive the next
day, and take up their quarters at Cherry
Valley.  His name was Lieutenant
Woodville; he was a young man of fortune,—
gay, gallant, handsome, and daring.  He was
dressed in a rich suit of velvet, wore a
plumed hat and a jewel-hilted sword, and let
his dark waving hair grow to a cavalierish
length.  He rode a full-blooded English
horse, which he managed with ease.  This
Lieutenant Woodville lingered so long at
the settlement, that his friends tried to
persuade him to remain all night; but
he laughed, and, as he mounted, flung
down his portmanteau to one of them,