Two months have passed away, and the scarlet and gold of the fall is on all the vast forest that borders the Mohawk river.
In the English camp near Bemis Hights, General Burgoyne is holding a council of war with his officers, and the tall, burly form of Colonel Butler, in the dark green frock of the Johnson Greens, is conspicuous among the scarlet of the Generals. Butler has his left arm in a sling, still, from the effect of Adrian Schuyler’s cut, and his face is heavy and lowering as ever, as he urges some measure on the council with great energy.
“I hardly think, colonel, that the end warrants the risk attending the expedition,” said Burgoyne, at last. “This unfortunate affair at Bennington has crippled us badly, and we must not risk the little cavalry we have left on an uncertainty. T
