advanced, and it was a powerful door that
could withstand their blow. One of the ambushed rangers moved a little,
and, in doing so, made a noise. Quick as a flash the warriors dropped
the log, and another farther back fired at the noise.

"Give it to 'em, lads!" cried Willet.

A score of rifles flashed and the warriors replied instantly, but they
were caught at a disadvantage. They had come there for rapine and
murder, expecting an easy victory, and while Tandakora rallied them they
were no match for the rangers, led by such men as Willet and his
lieutenants. The battle, fierce and sanguinary, though it was, lasted a
bare five minutes and then the Ojibway and those of his band who
survived took to flight. Robert caught a glimpse among the fleeing men
of one whom he knew to be the spy, Garay. Stirred by a fierce impulse he
fired at him, but missed in the dusk, and then Garay vanished with the
others. Robert, however, did not believe that he had been recognized by
the spy and he was glad of it. He preferred that Garay should consider
him dead, and then he would be free of danger from that source.

The firing was succeeded by a few minutes of intense silence and then
the great door of the Chateau de Chatillard opened again. Once more
Father Drouillard stood on the step, holding a lamp in his hand.

"It is over, Father," said Willet. "We've driven off part of 'em and the
others lie here."

"I heard the noise of the battle from within," said Father Drouillard
calmly, "and for the first time in my life I prayed that the Bostonnais
might win."

"If you don't mind, Father, bring the lamp, and let us see the fallen.
There must be at least fifteen here."

Father Drouillard, holding the light high, walked out upon the lawn with
steady step.

"Here is a Montagnais," said Willet, "and this a St. Regis, and this a
St. Francis, and this a Huron, and this an Ojibway from the far west!
Ah, and here is a Frenchman, an officer, too, and he isn't quite dead!
Hold the lamp a little closer, will you, Father?"

The priest threw the rays of the lamp upon the figure.

"Jumonville!" exclaimed Robert.

It was in truth Francois de Jumonville, shot through the body and dying,
slain in a raid for the sake of robbery and murder. When he saw the
faces of white men looking down at him, he raised himself feebly on one
elbow and said:

"It is you again, Willet, and you, too, Lennox and Tayoga. Always across
my path, but for the last time,