The little mountain town of Derryfield1 was full of the sounds of the drum and fife, while companies of tall, raw-boned countrymen, some with uniforms, more without, but all bearing arms and belts, were marching to and fro in the streets, and on the green, to the lively notes of “Yankee Doodle.”
In the best parlor of the “Patriot Arms,” the principal tavern of the village, a remarkably tall and scraggy-looking officer, in the uniform of a Continental General, was standing before the fire, with one foot on the huge andiron, looking shrewdly at our friend, Adrian Schuyler, who stood before him, still shackled.
The scraggy officer had very broad shoulders, and huge hands and feet, but the flesh seemed to have been forgotten in the formation of his powerful frame. He had a tall, narrow foreh
