ked,
the girl fell dead with her skull split by the chief's war-axe. The
Hurons on the lake now knew what awaited them; and a cry of terror
arose from the children. Then a silence of numb horror settled over
the incoming canoes. The women were driven ashore like lambs before
wolves; but the valiant Hurons would not die without striking one blow
at their inveterate and treacherous enemies. They threw themselves
together back to back, prepared to fight. For a moment this show of
resistance drove off the Iroquois. Then the Onondaga chieftain rushed
forward, protesting that the two murders had been a personal quarrel.
Striking back his own warriors with a great show of sincerity, he bade
the Hurons run for refuge to the top of the hill. No sooner had the
Hurons broken rank, than there rushed from the woods scores of
Iroquois, daubed in war-paint and shouting their war-cry. This was the
hunt to which the young braves had dashed from the canoes to be in
readiness behind the thicket. Before the scattered Hurons could get
together for defence, the Onondagas had closed around the hilltop in a
cordon. The priest ran here, there, everywhere,--comforting the dying,
stopping mutilation, defending the women. All the Hurons were
massacred but one man, and the bodies were thrown into the river. With
blankets drawn over their heads that they might not see, the women
huddled together, dumb with terror. When the Onondagas turned toward
the women, the Frenchmen stood with muskets levelled. The Onondagas
halted, conferred, and drew off.

[Illustration: Paddling past Hostiles.]

The fight lasted for four hours. Darkness and the valor of the little
French band saved the women for the time. The Iroquois kindled a fire
and gathered to celebrate their victory. Then the old priest took his
life in his hands. Borrowing three belts of wampum, he left the
huddling group of Huron women and Frenchmen and marched boldly into the
circle of hostiles. The lives of all the French and Hurons hung by a
thread. Ragueneau had been the spiritual guide of the murdered tribe
for twenty years; and he was now sobbing like a child. The Iroquois
regarded his grief with sardonic scorn; but they misjudged the manhood
below the old priest's tears. Ragueneau asked leave to speak. They
grunted permission. Springing up, he broke into impassioned, fearless
reproaches of the Iroquois for their treachery. Casting one belt of
wampum at the Onondaga c