n rose from the
Canadians at the sight, which was drowned in the murderous yell of the
savages.

"His limbs twitch. He is not dead," cried De la Noue.

"Let him die there," said the old pioneer callously, ramming a fresh
charge into his gun. "Ah, there is the gray hat again. It comes ever
when I am unloaded."

"I saw a plumed hat among the brushwood."

"It is the Flemish Bastard. I had rather have his scalp than those of
his hundred best warriors."

"Is he so brave then?"

"Yes, he is brave enough. There is no denying it, for how else could he
be an Iroquois war-chief? But he is clever and cunning, and cruel--
Ah, my God, if all the stories told are true, his cruelty is past
believing. I should fear that my tongue would wither if I did but name
the things which this man has done. Ah, he is there again."

The gray hat with the plume had shown itself once more in a rift of the
smoke. De la Noue and Du Lhut both fired together, and the cap
fluttered up into the air. At the same instant the bushes parted, and a
tall warrior sprang out into full view of the defenders. His face was
that of an Indian, but a shade or two lighter, and a pointed black beard
hung down over his hunting tunic. He threw out his hands with a gesture
of disdain, stood for an instant looking steadfastly at the fort, and
then sprang back into cover amid a shower of bullets which chipped away
the twigs all round him.

"Yes, he is brave enough," Du Lhut repeated with an oath.
"Your _censitaires_ have had their hoes in their hands more often than
their muskets, I should judge from their shooting. But they seem to be
drawing closer upon the east face, and I think that they will make a
rush there before long."

The fire had indeed grown very much fiercer upon the side which was
defended by De Catinat, and it was plain that the main force of the
Iroquois were gathered at that point. From every log, and trunk, and
cleft, and bush came the red flash with the gray halo, and the bullets
sang in a continuous stream through the loop-holes. Amos had whittled a
little hole for himself about a foot above the ground, and lay upon his
face loading and firing in his own quiet methodical fashion. Beside him
stood Ephraim Savage, his mouth set grimly, his eyes flashing from under
his down-drawn brows, and his whole soul absorbed in the smiting of the
Amalekites. His hat was gone, his grizzled hair flying in the breeze,
great splotches of powder