Still, drearily the fight went on Until a week had nearly gone, When it was told—a whisper first, And then in loud alarm it burst— Their powder scarce was growing; they Knew where a keg unopened lay Outside the fort at Zane’s—what now? Their leader stood with anxious brow. It must be had at any cost, Or toil and fort and lives were lost. Some one must do that work of fear; What man of men would volunteer? Two offered, and so earnest they, Neither his purpose would give way; And Shepherd, who commanded, dare Not pick or choose between the pair. But ere they settled on the one By whom the errand should be done, Young Betty interposed, and said, “Let me essay the task instead. Small matter ’t were if Betty Zane, A useless woman, should be slain; But death, if dealt on one of those, Gives too much vantage to our foes.” Her father, smiled with pleasure grim— Her pluck gave painful pride to him; And while her brothers clamored “No!” He uttered, “Boys, let Betty go! She’ll do it at less risk than you; But keep her steady in your view, And be your rifles shields for her. If yonder foe make step or stir, Pick off each wretch who draws a bead, And so you’ll serve her in her need. Now I recover from surprise, I think our Betty’s purpose wise.” The gate was opened, on she sped; The foe astonished, gazed, ’tis said, And wondered at her purpose, till She gained that log-hut by the hill. But when, in apron wrapped, the cask She backward bore, to close her task, The foemen saw her aim at last, And poured their fire upon her fast. Bullet on bullet near her fell, While rang the Indians’ angry yell; But safely through that whirring rain, Powder in arms, came Betty Zane. They filled their horns, both boys and men, And so began the fight again. Girty, who there so long had stayed, By this new feat of feet dismayed, Fired houses round and cattle slew, And moved away—the fray was through. But when the story round was told How they maintained the leaguered hold, It was agreed, though fame was due To all who in that fight were true, The highest meed of praise, ’twas plain, Fell to the share of Betty Zane. A hundred years have passed since then; The savage never came again. Girty is dust; alike are dead Those who assailed and those bestead. Upon those half-cleared, rolling lands, A crowded city proudly stands; But of the many who reside By green Ohio’s rushing tide, Not one has lineage prouder than (Be he or poor or rich) the man Who boasts that in his spotless strain Mingles the blood of Betty Zane. [Illustration: PLAN OF THE BATTLE.] _OPERATIONS AT MONMOUTH._