As Neville and the squire and Zenas turned away from the solemn pageant of which they had been silent spectators, the latter remarked, "Captain Villiers said he'd almost give his other arm to be able to be present to-day and lay a wreath on the coffin of his gallant chief. As he couldn't come, he wrote these verses, which he wished me to post to the York _Gazette_. He said I might read them to you, Mr. Trueman, before I sent them." And the boy, not very fluently, but with a good deal of feeling, read the following lines:-- "Low bending o'er the ragged bier, The soldier drops the mournful tear, For life departed, valour driven, Fresh from the field of death, to Heaven. "But Time shall fondly trace the name Of BROCK upon the scrolls of Fame, And those bright laurels, which should wave Upon the brow of one so brave, Shall flourish vernal o'er his grave." Neville commended the graceful tribute with generous warmth, when Zenas remarked, "The Captain will be glad to hear you like them. Leastways, I suppose so. He read them himself to Kate this morning, and seemed pleased because they made her cry." "He is a brave gentleman," says the squire. "I fear it will be long before he mounts his horse, again." "O he'll soon be round again," chimed in Zenas. "He said Kate would be his Elaine, to nurse the wounded Lancelot back to life. Who was Lancelot?" "Some of those moon-struck poetry fellows, I'll be bound," said the squire contemptuously. "Nay, a very gallant knight," said Neville, who had when a boy, read with delight Sir Thomas Mallory's book of King Arthur; but he did not seem to relish the comparison and led the conversation into a serious vein, as befitting the solemn occasion. CHAPTER VI. THE CAPTURE OF YORK. After the battle of Queenston Heights an armistice of a month followed, during which each party was gathering up its strength for the renewal of the unnatural conflict. General Smyth, who had succeeded Van Rensselaer, assembled a force five thousand strong, for the conquest of Canada. At the expiration of the armistice, he issued a Napoleonic proclamation to his "companions in arms." "Come on, my heroes" it concludes; "when you attack the enemy's batteries let your rallying word be: 'The cannon lost at Detroit, or death.'" At length, before day-break on the morning of November 28th--a cold, bleak day--a force of some five hundred men, in eighteen scows, attempted the capture of Grand Island, in the Niagara River. A considerable British force had rallied from Fort Erie and Chippewa. In silence they awaited the approach of the American flotilla. As it came within range, a ringing cheer burst forth, and a deadly volley of musketry was poured into the advancing boats. A six-pounder, well served by Captain Kerby, shattered two of the boats; and the Americans, thrown into confusion, sought the shelter of their own shore.