the Indian a madman, an' the white man, too."

"Well, thank God," said Neville, "it is a great and bloodless
victory. I hope it will bring a speedy peace."

"I am afraid not," said the squire, arousing from his doze in the
"ingle nook." "We had a seven years' struggle of it in the old
war, and I fear that there will have to be some blood-letting
before these bad humours are cufed. But we'll hope for the best.
Come, Katharine, bring us a flagon of your sweet cider."

The sturdy brown flagon was brought, and the gleaming pewter mugs
were filled--it was long before the days of Temperance Societies--
even the preacher thinking it no harm to take his mug of the
sweet, amber-coloured draught.

Neville read from the great family Bible that night the majestic
forty-sixth psalm, so grandly paraphrased in Luther's hymn,

"Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott;"

the favourite battle-hymn, chanting which the Protestant armies
marched to victory on many a hard-fought field--the hymn sung by
the host of Gustavus Adolphus on the eve of the fatal fight of
Lutzen.

As he read the closing verses of the psalm the young preacher's
voice assumed the triumphant tone of assured faith in the glorious
prophecy: