Miss Bond, the Misses Shippen, and others, all of loyalist families, yet
content to play the game of hearts with both armies. Even as I gazed upon
that galaxy of beauty, half angry that Americans should take part in such
a spectacle of British triumph, the field was cleared for the lists, and
a sound of trumpets came to us from a distance.

Out into the opening rode the contending knights, attended by esquires on
foot, dressed in ancient habits of white and red silk, and mounted on
gray horses. From the other direction appeared their opponents, in black
and orange, riding black steeds, while to the centre advanced the herald
loudly proclaiming the challenge. I knew not who they all were, but they
made a gallant show, and I overheard many a name spoken of soldiers met
in battle--Lord Cathcart, Captain André, Major Tarlton, Captain Scott.
Ay! and they fought well that day, those White and Black Knights on the
mimic field, first charging together, shivering their spears; the second
and third encounters discharging pistols; and in the fourth attacking
with swords in most gallant combat. At last the two chiefs--Lord Cathcart
for the Whites, and Captain Watson, of the Guards, for the Blacks--were
alone contending furiously, when the marshal of the field rushed in
between, and struck up their weapons, declaring the contest done, the
honor of each side proven. As the company broke up, flowing forward to
the great house beyond, the vast crowd of onlookers burst through the
guard-lines, and, like a mighty torrent, swept over the field. It was a
wild, jubilant, yelling mass, so dense as to be irresistible, even those
of us on horseback being pressed forward, helpless chips on the stream.

I endeavored to press back, but my restive animal, startled by the dig of
the spur, the yells, the waving of arms, refused to face the tumult, and
whirled madly about. For a moment I all but lost control, yet, even as he
plunged rearing into the air, I saw before me the appealing face of a