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He strode across the green.

The sun was going down, sending up red and golden lances, as it were, over the dark shades of the cedars. On the hills lay great farms half in glittering sunlight, half in dark shadows.

“Have you any thought when the Governor will return?” asked the rider of the tavern-keeper.

“No, Israel, I have not—but I hear that there is important news from Boston—that it is suspected that the British are about to make a move to capture the stores of American powder at Concord. The Governor, I mind me, knows something about the secrets of powder hiding, but of that I can not be sure.”

“Great events are at hand,” said Putnam. “I can feel them in the air. I had the same feeling before the northern campaign. I must stay here until the Governor arrives.”

“You shall have the best the tavern affords,” said the innkeeper.

The sun went down blazing on the hills, seeming like a far gate of heaven, as its semicircular splendors filled the sky. Then came the hour of shadows with the advent of the early stars, and then the grand procession of the night march of the hosts of heaven that looks bright indeed over the dark cedars.