It was just the luck of Tom Deering and Cole, after escaping from Charleston, to be pushing through a cane-brake on their way north one afternoon when dusk was about to creep out of the east. The section was well known to the boy and his servant, for they had ridden over it many times in pursuit of Tories during the period after the victory at Sullivan’s Island. Suddenly a series of shots rang out, followed by a woman’s scream; with one accord our friends spurred forward, their powerful animals crashing through the growth in long, swift bounds. In a few moments they had gained a clearing, in the middle of which stood a small cabin. The figure of a man lay before the door and a sobbing woman bent over him. A riderless horse was cropping the grass near at hand and a British soldier, desperately wounded, sat propped against a stump. Two other troopers and a huge, red-faced officer--of high rank, judging from his uniform--sat their horses at the edge of the clearing. The troopers were loading their pieces; the officer was waving an empty holster pistol and shouting madly; two young men, hardly more than boys, were stationed behind trees, rapidly loading their long ducking guns, and facing the soldiers. It required but a glance for Tom Deering to realize the situation; it was a patriot family attacked by a party of British. Instantly he called to Cole, and, without pausing, they rode at the dragoons. Each had a heavy cavalry sabre and a pair of large holster pistols; the sabres were drawn as they charged; their heavy, curved blades rose in the air, flashing in the waning light of day. They were upon the three Englishmen before the latter realized their presence; Cole’s great bay horse, in full career, struck against the lighter animal of one of the troopers and sent horse and man to the ground in a struggling heap. At the same instant one of the youths behind the trees near the cabin, having finished reloading his piece, fired; the other dragoon fell from his horse with a shattered shoulder. This left but the burly, red-faced officer still in the saddle, and without a moment’s hesitation Tom dashed at him, his sabre swinging for a cut. The officer saw his danger; with a sudden jerk of his arm he threw the heavy pistol at the boy’s head. But Tom avoided the flying weapon by swiftly leaning to one side. “Surrender!” he commanded, his sabre flashing about the officer’s head. With a roar of anger like that of an infuriated bear the Englishman drew his sword from its scabbard, and the blades crossed with a sharp, angry ring. Take care, Tom Deering, take care! Your boldness has led you into great danger; you have proved a worthy pupil of Victor St. Mar, late of King Louis’ army, but, as yet, you are not a match for Lieutenant-Colonel Tarleton, at once a man of lion-like strength and ferocity and a master of the sabre.