Ned had a long lonely tramp along the lake shore, till one morning, it was June 6, he heard at dawn the roar of distant cannon, and knew the invaders had located, and were attacking Vincent. All that day he walked on steadily, feverishly eager to know how the fight had gone. The long summer day was ending, when he heard the sounds of many men near him in the gloom, though there was no smell of smoke or gleam of a camp-fire. Ned went on carefully, saw a redcoated sentry, was challenged by him, and was the next moment exuberantly greeted by Tim Kelly. "Sure, and its the Swaddler's friend," Tim cried. "Are you asking if he's alive and well? Just swear a bit, me boy, and he'll be down on you immediate. No, we're not at Lake Champlain, we're here, breaking our hearts entirely marching through woods that last forever and ever. We left our women at Montreal, and have been getting through the forest ever since, talking in whispers and walking on our tiptoes. Barring the time we were at Kingston, we've never been able to light a fire, and my stomach's about dead with eating uncooked meat and things, and the Swaddler's real worried because he can't stop to wash his clothes; if he'd been a gentleman born, he couldn't hate being dirty more." "Were you at Kingston long?" asked Ned with a great fear in his heart. He had meant to give an assumed name when he found the fighting force, but now this was impossible. And though Tim evidently knew nothing, his officers might. "Just long enough for Ferguson to find a bunch of Swaddlers," said Tim carelessly. "Do you know, me boy, why the heathen here paint their faces?" "I suppose it is their custom," Ned answered absently. "It's because these woods are cruel hard on clothes, me boy, and when a man has only half of nothing left of his trousers he naturally paints to hide his blushes." * * * Ned was passed into the lines, where Percy met him, and the captain's greeting told him he was in no fear of discovery as yet. He was given food, and a large ration of whiskey, which he refused. "Look here, young man," said the old sergeant severely, "do you know you're a fool? Going without drink's bad for a man's health, especially when like now he can't get proper cooked food. We don't want tee-total fanatics in the army, they'd break down on a hard march." "Let him alone, Giles," said Percy's voice behind them in the dark. "Don't you know he is a Swaddler, like Ferguson? You know he never touches liquors, and he has not broken down through all this hard marching. I should imagine you would like more 'fanatics' like him, who never grumbles at anything, and stands the hardest work better than stronger looking men than himself."