“Can’t tell,” said the first. “He’s lying on his face, and, besides, he’s half buried in a gully. We’ll let him stay here; I guess this gully will do for his grave.” “No, it won’t, Whitestone!” said I, sitting up. “When the right time comes for me to be buried I want a grave deeper than this.” “Good Lord! is it you, Mr. Shelby?” exclaimed Whitestone, in surprise and genuine gladness. “Yes, it is I,” I replied, “and in pretty sound condition too, when you consider the fact that all the British and American soldiers in the province of New York have been firing point-blank at me for the last two hours.” Then I described my tribulations, and Whitestone, saying I should deem myself lucky to have fared so well, went with me to our camp. CHAPTER X. THE SUN OF SARATOGA. Dangers and troubles past have never prevented me from sleeping well, and when I awoke the next morning it was with Whitestone pulling at my shoulder. “This is the third shake,” said he. “But the last,” said I, getting up and rubbing my eyes. I have seldom seen a finer morning. The fresh crispness of early October ran through the brilliant sunshine. The earth was bathed in light. It was such a sun as I have heard rose on the morning of the great battle of Austerlitz, fought but recently. A light wind blew from the west. The blood bubbled in my veins. “It’s lucky that so many of us should have such a fine day for leaving the world,” said Whitestone. The battle, the final struggle for which we had been looking so long, was at hand. I had not mistaken the preparations in the British camp the night before. I have had my share, more or less humble, in various campaigns and combats, but I have not seen any other battle begun with so much deliberation as on that morning. In truth all whom I could see appeared to be calm. A man is sometimes very brave and sometimes much afraid--I do not know why--but that day the braver part of me was master. We were ready and waiting to see what the British would do, when Burgoyne, with his picked veterans, came out of his intrenchments and challenged us to battle, much as the knights of the old time used to invite one another to combat. They were not so many as we--we have never made that claim; but they made a most gallant show, all armed in the noble style with which Britain equips her troops, particularly the bayonets, of which we have had but few in the best of times, and none, most often. They sat down in close rank on the hillside, as if they were quite content with what we might do or try to do, whatever it might be. I have heard many say it was this vaunting over us that chiefly caused the war.