She hastened from the room, and quickly returned with the weapons, which she handed to Lee as cheerfully as though she looked for some special benefit to herself from their use.  Word was sent to McPherson of what was intended, and that Rawdon had not yet crossed the Santee.  Immediate surrender would save many lives.  The bold commandant still refused.

At midday, from the shelter of the ditch, Nathan Savage, one of Marion’s men, shot several flaming arrows at the roof.  Two of them struck the dry shingles.  Almost instantly these were in a flame.  The fire crept along the roof.  Soldiers were sent up to extinguish it, but a shot or two from the field-piece drove them down.

There was no longer hope for McPherson.  He must surrender, or have his men burned in the fort, or decimated if they should leave it.  He hung out the white flag of surrender.  The firing ceased; the flames were extinguished; at one o’clock the garrison yielded themselves prisoners.  An hour afterwards the victorious and the captive officers were seated at an ample repast at Mrs. Motte’s table, presided over by that lady with as much urbanity and grace as though these guests were her especial friends.  Since that day Mrs. Motte has been classed among the most patriotic heroines of the Revolution.

This is, perhaps, enough in prose, but the fame of Marion and his men has been fitly enshrined in poetry, and it will not be amiss to quote a verse or two, in conclusion, from Bryant’s stirring poem entitled “Song of Marion’s Men.”

    Our band is few, but true and tried
      Our leader frank and bold: 
    The British soldier trembles
      When Marion’s name is told. 
    Our fortress is the good greenwood,
      Our tent the cypress-tree;
    We know the forest round us,
      As seamen know the sea. 
    We know its walls of thorny vines,
      Its glades of reedy grass;
    Its safe and silent islands
      Within the dark morass.

    Well knows the fair and friendly moon
      The band that Marion leads,—­
    The glitter of their rifles,
      The scampering of their steeds. 
    ’Tis life to guide the fiery barb
      Across the moonlit plain;
    ’Tis life to feel the night wind
      That lifts his tossing mane. 
    A moment in the British camp,—­
      A moment,—­and away
    Back to the pathless forest
      Before the peep of day.

    Grave men there are by broad Santee,
      Grave men with hoary hairs;
    Their hearts are all with Marion,
      For Marion are their prayers. 
    And lovely ladies greet our band
      With kindliest welcoming,
    With smiles like those of summer,
      And tears like those of spring. 
    For them we wear these trusty arms,
      And lay them down no more
    Till we have driven the Briton
      Forever from our shore.

THE FATE OF THE PHILADELPHIA.