One of Coulter’s men had been an old scout. Job Fisher was notorious for his stern deliberation and method. He had not been content to pick his man, but continued to revolve around the gamblers until he could range a couple of them, both of whom fell under his first fire. Of the two others, one was shot down by the companion of Fisher. The fourth took to his heels, but was overtaken, and brained with the butt of the rifle. The scouts then hurried to other parts of the farmstead, agreeable to previous arrangement, where they gave assistance to their fellows. The history, in short, was one of complete surprise and route—the dragoons were not allowed to rally; nine of them were slain outright—not including the captain; and the rest dispersed, to be picked up at a time of greater leisure. At the moment when Coulter’s party were assembling at the dwelling, Brough had succeeded in bringing the old couple together. Very pitiful and touching was the spectacle of these two embracing with groans, tears, and ejaculations—scarcely yet assured of their escape from the hands of their hateful tyrant. But our attention is required within the dwelling. Rapidly extricating himself from the body of the loyalist captain, Coulter naturally turned to look for Frederica. She was just recovering from her swoon. She had fortunately been spared the sight of the conflict, although she continued long afterward to assert that she had been conscious of it all, though she had not been able to move a limb, or give utterance to a single cry. Her eyes opened with a wild stare upon her husband, who stooped fondly to her embrace. She knew him instantly—called his name but once, but that with joyful accents, and again fainted. Her faculties had received a terrible shock. Coulter himself felt like fainting. The pain of his wounded arm was great, and he had lost a good deal of blood. He felt that he could not long be certain of himself, and putting the bugle to his lips, he sounded three times with all his vigor. As he did so, he became conscious of a movement in the corner of the room. Turning in this direction, he beheld, crouching into the smallest possible compass, the preacher, Veitch. The miserable wretch was in a state of complete stupor from his fright. “Bring water!” said Coulter. But the fellow neither stirred nor spoke. He clearly did not comprehend. In the next moment, however, the faithful Brough made his appearance. His cries were those of joy and exultation, dampened, however, as he beheld the condition of his young mistress. “Fear nothing, Brough, she is not hurt—she has only fainted. But run for your old mistress. Run, old boy, and bring water while you’re about it. Run!” “But you’ arm, Mass Dick—he da bleed! You hu’t?” “Yes, a little—away!”