tack was at hand.

"Keep close, Grosvenor," said Robert. "They'll fire the first volley and
we'll let it pass over our heads."

"I know the wisdom of what you say," replied the Englishman, "but it's
hard to refrain from looking when you know a French army and a mass of
howling savages are about to rush down upon you."

"But one must, if he intends to live and fight."

Clear and full sang the trumpets of Dieskau once more. Despite his
advice to Grosvenor, Robert peeped over the log and saw the enemy
gathering in the forest. The French regulars were in front, behind them
the Canadians, and on the flanks hovered great masses of savages. Smoke
floated over trees and bushes, and the forest was full of acrid odors.
Far to the right he caught another glimpse of St. Luc in his splendid
white and silver uniform, marshaling the Indians, a shining mark, but
apparently untouched.

"The attack will be fierce," whispered Tayoga, who lay on his left.
"They consider their check a matter of but a moment, and they think to
sweep over us."

"But we have hundreds and hundreds of good rifles that say them nay. Is
Tododaho still silent, Tayoga?"

The Onondaga looked up at the heavens, where the deep blue, beyond the
smoke, was unstained. There was the corner, where the star, on which his
patron saint lived, came out at night, but no light shone from the
silky void and no whisper reached his ear. So he said in reply:

"The great Onondaga chieftain who went away four hundred years ago is
silent today, and we must await the event."

"We won't have to wait long, because I hear a single trumpet now, and to
me it sounds wonderfully like the call to charge."

The silver note thrilled through the woods, the French regulars and
Canadians uttered a shout, which was followed instantly by the terrible
yell of the Indians, and then the thickets crashed beneath the tread of
the attacking army.

"Here they come!" shouted Grosvenor, and, laying his rifle across the
log, he fired almost at random into the charging mass. Robert and Tayoga
picked their targets, and their bullets sped true. All along the
American line ran the fierce fire, the crest of the whole barricade
blazing with red, while the artillery, which the savages always dreaded,
opened on them with showers of grape.

The Indians, despite all the bravery and example of St. Luc, wavered,
and, as their dead fell around them, they began to give forth laments,
instead of triumphant yells