At last the hopes of the old horse were realized. He was serving his country and very soon understood the errand on which they were bent. He spurned the earth; stone fences stretched across his way; streams had to be forded; now and then a steep declivity appeared, but he was a “Bay,” and he remembered what they say of a bay in the Desert; rough fields, retarding forests, and wide stretches of valley did not discourage him. Hurrying on he found naught but broad, fine happiness. He was serving his country! White with foam he reached Hinesburg and Lieut. Van Sicklen shouted: “The British are coming!” Then over his shoulder: “They have invaded Plattsburg and volunteers are wanted! On to Burlington!” Every mouth took up the cry. “On to Burlington, the British are coming!” Morgan’s nostrils showed red--but he was just beginning this wonderful experience, for which he had waited so long. On, on, to serve his country! They left the people hurrying into their houses for their muskets. Men snatched them from the high mantel-shelves and started out leaving their plows stuck in the earth. The women did not weep--they, too, set out, some doggedly, some eager; they begged extra guns and went along leaving their kitchen doors open and their pots hanging from the cranes; they had not forgotten the Indians--and that other cry: “The British are coming!” These were living memories to many. Even the children pleaded to go along, for was not the American spirit born in them? And on Morgan and his rider went. “The British are coming!” The cry rose and fell and echoed through the mountains and valleys of Vermont. At last they reached Montpelier where they were to rest the night at the Farmer’s Inn, where Morgan used to live. But he was so tired he could not revive memories of his youth, and lay down on the clean straw to rest, almost at once. He did not know how long he had been sleeping when his keen ears were penetrated by the whisper of men outside the stable door. He sprang to his four feet, suspiciously. “’Tis the fleetest horse in the state,” said one voice. “Have him out and you will signal General Prevost from the Upper Lake to-morrow night!” “Prevost! a Red-Coat General!” thought Morgan. “They must be spies!” The door was opened softly a moment later, and a man crept in. On the instant a rush of air from without swept into Morgan’s nostrils the unforgotten odor of the Tory Boy whose dog had killed Black Baby, the lamb. No longer a boy, he no doubt deserved the kick in accordance with his increased age and wickedness. Here surely was the opportunity Allah had been preparing all these years. Morgan had been standing with his face to the door, but, on recognizing the intruder, he wheeled suddenly, and with a cry, almost human, he delivered the kick of a lifetime!