"
"I am. They can't cross that creek in face of our fire. We're good
night-hawks. Every boy in the South knows the night and the woods,
and here in the bush we're something like Indians."
"I'm the descendant of a famous Indian fighter myself," said Harry.
And there, surrounded by deep gloom and danger, the spirit of his mighty
ancestor, the great Henry Ware, descended upon him once more. An orderly
had taken their horses to the rear, where they would be out of range of
the bullets, and, as they crouched low in the bushes, Sherburne looked
curiously at him.
Harry's face as he turned from the soldier to the Indian fighter of old
had changed. To Sherburne's fascinated gaze the eyes seemed amazingly
vivid and bright, like those of one who has learned to see in the dark.
The complexion was redder--Henry Ware had always burned red instead of
brown--like that of one who sleeps oftener in the open air than in a
house. His whole look was dominant, compelling and fierce, as he leaned
on his elbows and studied the opposing thickets through his glasses.
The glasses even did not destroy the illusion. To Sherburne, who had
learned Harry's family history, the great Henry Ware was alive, and in
the flesh before him.
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