All around us raged and yelled the maddened Seneca pack, slashing each other again and again in their crazed attempts to reach us. The Yellow Moth was stabbed through and through a hundred times, yet the ghastly corpse still kept its feet, so terrible was the crushing pressure on every side.

Suddenly, tearing a path through the frenzied mob, I saw a mob of cursing, sweating, green-coated soldiers and rangers, struggling toward us — saw one of Butler’s rangers seize Sergeant Parker by the collar of his hunting shirt, bawling out:

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Prisoner taken from Morgan’s corps!”

Another, an officer of British regulars, I think, threw himself on Boyd, shouting:

“By heaven! It’s Boyd of Derry! Are you not Tom Boyd, of Derry, Pennsylvania?”