The rain poured steadily down in torrents, and the heavens were all one unvarying mass of leaden clouds. The outlines of the Green Mountains were wrapped in driving fleeces of gray mist, and the chilly north-east wind drove the rain aslant, splashing up the pools that collected in every hollow.
Adrian Schuyler, at the head of a small party of horsemen, was slowly riding along on his recovered charger, through the fields near the little town of Bennington. He was wrapped in his long cloak, and the rain dripped from his tall hussar-cap in a continued spout. His followers were awkward, countryfied Green-Mountain Boys, but their peculiar leathern costume told that they were all hunters, and not agriculturists, by profession. Hunters they were, and first-class shots, keen at detecting trails,
