word, Corporal O'Flynn with a
squad of soldiers rushed briskly into the crowd, and in less than two
minutes the rioters were in irons.

"Jedburgh justice!" said Stuart aside to Demere, as they took their way
back across the parade. "Hang 'em first, and try 'em afterward."

The bystanders might argue little from Demere's reticent soldierly
dignity, but Stuart's ringing laugh, as he spoke aside to his brother
officer, his cheerful, buoyant, composed mien, restored confidence as
naught less than the sound of Montgomery's bugles outside the works
might have done. Doubtless he was apprised of early relief. Surely he
did not look like a man who expected to live on horse-flesh in the midst
of a mutinous garrison, with the wild savages outside, and within that
terrible strain upon the courage,--the contemplation of the sufferings
of non-combatants, the women and children, who had entered into no
covenant and received no compensation to endure the varying chances of
war.

Yet this prospect seemed close upon him before that day was done. The
orderly routine had slipped again into its grooves. The hungry men,
brisk, spruce, were going about their various military duties with an
alacrity incongruous with their cadaverous aspect. The sentinels were
posted as usual, and Captain Stuart, repairing according to his wont to
a post of observation in the block-house tower of the northwest bastion,
turned his glass upon the country beyond, lowered it suddenly, looking
keenly at the lens, as if he could not believe his eyes, and again
lifted it. There was no mistake. On the opposite side of the river,
looking like some gigantic monkey capering along on a pair of thin bare
legs, was a stalwart Indian, arrayed for the upper part of his person in
a fine scarlet coat, richly laced, evidently the spoil from some British
officer of high rank. Perhaps no apparition so grotesque ever sent a
chill to so stout a heart. Stuart was no prophet, quotha. But he could
see the worst when it came and stared him in the eyes.

CHAPTER XI

Stuart and Demere argued the matter in their secret conclaves. Both
admitted that although Montgomery had had only four or five men killed,
among them no officers, on his first expedition, he might have again
taken the field, and this was as they hoped. He was advancing; he must
be near. The trophy of the fine red coat meant probably that he had lost
an officer of value;--perhaps meant less--the personal disaster