t come again, although they pressed themselves against the wooden
bastion and strained ears to hear.

The heart of Major Braithwaite gradually sank again. It might have been
an illusion. A heart so eager to hear might have deceived the ear into
hearing. The darkness seemed to have closed in thicker and heavier than
ever. The flashes of lightning, although as vivid as before, were not so
frequent, but the wind rose, and its shrieking got upon the ears of the
three.

"I wish it would stop!" said the Major angrily. "I want to hear
something else! Was it imagination about the cannon? Could we have
deceived ourselves into hearing what we wanted to hear? Is such a thing
possible?"

The scout shook his head.

"It wuzn't no deception," he said. "I shorely heard cannon. Mebbe
they've quit firin' 'em, an' are comin' on now with the rifles an' the
pistols. It must be that. I'm like you, Major, I believe in that boy,
Henry Ware, an' he's comin' right now with the fleet to save all them
women an' children behind us."

"God grant that you may be right," said Major Braithwaite devoutly.

The three still leaned against the crest of the wooden wall, and the
rain yet drove upon them, unnoticed. They listened, with every nerve
taut, for a sound that did not come, and whenever the lightning flashed
they strained their eyes down the dark reaches of the river to see
something that they did not see. Over an hour passed, and they scarcely
moved. Then the scout straightened up.

"Now I hear 'em," he said, "Listen! It's not the cannon that's talkin'.
It's the rifles. I tell you that fleet, with the boy on it, is comin'.
It's shoved its way right through all them nests uv hornets an' wasps.
Hear that. Ef that ain't the crack uv rifles, then I'm no livin' man."

Sounds, faint but with a clear distinct note, came to them, and again
Major Braithwaite knew that he could not be mistaken. It was like the
distant fire of the skirmishers when the Anglo-American army advanced
through the woods upon Ticonderoga, and he had heard the same sound in
their front when they first stood upon the Plains of Abraham. It was
rifle fire, the lashing whip-like crack of the western rifles, and it
was a rifle fire that was advancing.

"Glory to God!" he exclaimed in immense exultation and relief. "It's the
fleet! The fleet's at hand! There cannot be any doubt now! Take the men
to the walls, Wilmot, because it's likely that the Indians will renew
the attack upo