ere seen mingling like so many rats upon the water,
as they returned once more in disappointment from their fruitless
pursuit.

CHAPTER XII.

The sun had gone down, as he had risen, in all the gloriousness of his
autumnal splendour, and twilight was now fast descending on the waters
of the Huron. A slight breeze was just beginning to make itself felt
from the land, the gradual rising of which was hailed by many an
anxious heart, as the schooner, which had been making vain attempts to
quit her anchorage during the day, now urged her light bows through the
slightly curling element. A death-like silence, interrupted only by the
low gruff voice of a veteran seaman, as he issued, in technical
language, the necessary orders for the management of the vessel,
prevailed every where along her decks. The dress and general appearance
of this individual announced him for a petty officer of the royal
service; and it was evident, from the tone of authority with which he
spoke, he was now in the enjoyment of a temporary command. The crew,
consisting of about thirty souls, and chiefly veterans of the same
class, were assembled along the gangways, each man wearing a brace of
pistols in the belt, which, moreover, secured a naked cutlass around
his loins; and these now lingered near the several guns that were
thrown out from their gloomy looking ports, as if ready for some active
service. But, although the arming of these men indicated hostile
preparation, there was none of that buoyancy of movement and animation
of feature to be observed, which so usually characterise the
indomitable daring of the British sailor. Some stood leaning their
heads pensively on their hands against the rigging and hammocks that
were stowed away along the bulwarks, after the fashion of war ships in
boarding; others, with arms tightly folded across their chests, spirted
the tobacco juice thoughtfully from their closed teeth into the
receding waters; while not a few gazed earnestly and despondingly on
the burning fort in the distance, amid the rolling volumes of smoke and
flame from which, ever and anon, arose the fiendish yell of those who,
having already sacked, were now reducing it to ashes. Nor was this the
only object of their attention. On the sand bank alluded to in our last
chapter were to be dimly seen through the growing dusk, the dark
outlines of many of the savages, who, frantic with rage at their
inability to devote them to the same doom, were