"You have a painter's eyes, Mr. Hunter--do you know that man on the road yonder? A red hat, I think?--a rawboned horse?--An acquaintance of yours, Mr. Hunter?" "An acquaintance?" echoed the painter, with a look of surprise. "At this distance, it is impossible"---- "Mr. Jingleum, what say you?" cried Harriet, hastily; "or you, Mr. Pepperel?" "The midnight oil, Miss Falconer," murmured the modest bard; but was interrupted by the lawyer, saying, "It is necessary, before arriving at a conclusion, to examine into the premises; and before deciding upon this matter, I should like to have, not only the evidence of my own eyes, but the evidence of the eyes of other persons,"----when he was, in turn, silenced by the sudden exclamation of Dr. Merribody. "I know the fellow, as well as I know my own patients," he cried, pursing his eye-brows together; "'tis that scoundrelly quack fellow, John Green, the Indian trader; and I hope he may come here before night, that somebody may get drunk and trounce him." "Bravo!" cried Miss Falconer; and turning towards the river, she waved her handkerchief, as if to hasten the advance of her martial friends. "Nonsense!" cried Hunter, eagerly, but manifesting some little agitation. "What! Green, the good fellow that pulled me from the brook? Nonsense, doctor; that man is twice as tall; and besides, he rides quite a different horse." "I'll stand up to it," said the doctor, with dignity. "As for his horse, why these traders are always buying and stealing; and there's his red hat, as clear as a bunch of sumach, the red-headed villain! But never mind any such vagabonds: read away, Hunter, my boy, and let Jingleum begin; for I am as hungry as a horse-leech, and I long to be at something more substantial than all your confounded orations." "Hang the reading," cried the painter, petulantly; "let us see what's in the wind first.--We should at least be civil to the army officers: you see, they are regulars; and, there, they have given up their horses to old Richard, the coachman, and are running up the hill, like three hounds after breakfast.--Rogues, you will be sorted! and fair Britomart, you shall this time wave the lance of cunning in vain!" The last expressions were muttered within the recesses of his own heart. In the meanwhile, the three officers, ascending the hill quickly, were met by Miss Falconer, who flew to meet them, crying, "To horse, gentlemen, to horse! the game is riding into your very arms." These words were heard even at the rostrum, and filled all present with surprise; which was not much allayed, when the youngest of the three martialists, seizing upon Miss Falconer's hand, exclaimed, with a laugh,