A maiden, a young girl of perhaps seventeen summers, her hat
suspended by a broad ribbon from her arm, and half filled with
flowers, was wandering through the woodland tracks as quietly as
though in her sheltered home across the water. As she moved she
sang snatches of song in a clear, bird-like voice; and when her
eyes suddenly fell upon the three strange figures in the path,
there was no fear in their violet depths, only a sort of startled
bewilderment, instantly followed by an eagerness that there was no
mistaking.

"Oh," she exclaimed eagerly, in accents which denoted almost
unmixed pleasure, and speaking English with only a very slight
intonation denoting her mixed nationality, "I am sure that I have
my wish at last! You are Rogers' Rangers!"

Stark and Fritz had doffed their hats in a moment. They were more
nonplussed a great deal than this fearless maiden, who looked like
the goddess of the glade, secure in her right of possession. Her
eyes were dancing with glee; her mouth had curved to a delicious
smile of triumph.

"I have been longing to see the Rangers ever since I arrived at
Ticonderoga; but they declared they were terrible fire-eating men,
worse than the wild Indians, and that they would kill me if I
adventured myself near to them--kill me or carry me away captive.
But I said 'No!'" (and the girl threw back her head in a gesture of
pride and scorn); "I said that the Rangers were Englishmen--English
gentlemen, many of them--and that they did not war with women! I
was not afraid; I knew they would not lay a finger upon me.