They had swept the enemy
before them, so far, but trained troops speedily recover from a
panic, if they have a leader of nerve, and seeing a noble chance
in the angle of this deep-sunk road, the British fugitives turned
like boars at bay. Not a sign of them was visible to the
Americans. The latter were suffering from too much success. Their
usual caution seemed to have deserted them, and trotting in a
body they came along the narrow road, hemmed in by a forest and
soon to be hedged with cliffs of clay. They were heading for a
death-trap. At any price he must warn them. He slid down the
tree, and keeping cover ran as fast as possible toward the
ambush. It was the only hill near -- Beekman's Rise, they call
it. As far as possible from the red-coats, but still on the hill
that gave a view, he leaped on to a high stump and yelled as he
never did before: "Go back, go back! A trap! A trap!" And lifting
high his outspread hands he flung their palms toward his friends,
the old-time signal for "go back."
Not twice did they need warning. Like hunted wolves they flashed
from view in the nearest cover. A harmless volley from the
baffled ambush rattled amongst them, and leaping from his stump
Rolf ran for life.
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