"Get that sponging rod under the edge of the sledge, Mac," sang out Steve, a smile of confidence on his lips. "Ten chances to one they will rush us from another direction, and we must be ready to slew the gun round and fire. Yes. Here they come, this time from the right."

As quickly as possible the rod was thrust under the runner of the sledge which carried the gun, and with a heave Mac slewed it round till the muzzle pointed towards the spot from which the French were coming. He dug it again into position, and then waited, ready to move the sights still further if necessary.

"Jest a little lower wid the muzzle, sor," he sang out. "That's the way. Give 'em the charge rhight in their faces, and thin, bedad, we'll be for lavin'."

He stood on the tips of his moccasins peering into the distance, and then shuffled a little to one side in his snow shoes, wrenching the rod as he did so, and again slightly altering the aim of the gun. Figures had sprung up again on the sudden, and some twenty Frenchmen could be seen coming towards the gun as fast as the snow and their shoes would allow them. A musket spoke sharply, a flash illuminated the front of the enemy for an instant, and a heavy ball struck the runner of the sledge, glanced from it and very neatly severed the sling which held Steve's musket to his shoulders. Then came another shot, crisp and clear, the missile clipping a bough above the heads of the two gallant backwoodsmen standing beside the gun, and bringing a cloud of frozen snow about their ears. It was time to fire. Steve leaned over the breach, placed the pan of his flint lock close to the vent and pulled the trigger. Then he and Mac turned, and after Steve had driven his second spike home and so rendered the gun useless, darted off into the forest unmindful of the shouts they left behind them, knowing only that their use of the gun had resulted in terrible loss to the enemy.

"They have no thought of pursuing us," gasped Steve, some minutes later as they halted deep in the forest. "I think the discharge must have worked havoc, and thoroughly upset them. Listen to the others. Jim and the boys were just in time to catch the Indians, and I have a shrewd idea that they have beaten off their attack. Can we help in any way?"

"Hilp! Sure 'tis oursilves as will want hilp if them fellers catch a sight af us. Cap'n, we'd best lie hid here till the fightin's over, when we can follow the inimy and see that he returns home."

"And that he does not take his guns with him," exclaimed Steve. "After all, they could very easily bore out the vents again if they took them back to Ticonderoga, and then we might have them firing at us again. Let us return a little way, Mac, till we get a good sight of the weapons. With our muskets we should be able to keep the enemy away from them. Lucky for me that I picked up one of the French muskets when we left. Mine had a deep dent in the barrel, where that man's cutlass struck it, and I doubt whether it was fit to be used."

They looked to the loading and the priming of their firearms, and then turning away from their old tracks, for the enemy might even now be following, they struck off on another trail which brought them in a roundabout way to the guns. By now the snow had ceased to fall, so that before very long they caught sight of the two cannon, standing black against the white background beyond. Close to the runners of the sledges on which they were mounted lay two of the gunners whom Steve or Mac had struck down, while the third was sitting up on his elbow, and engaged in wiping the blood from his eyes.

"Sure, 'tis sorra he'll be that he's aloive, so he will," said Mac, indulging in a dry chuckle. "'Tis the Frinchman himsilf as will have a head that's fit to burst. Sure the man's dizzy."

"And well he might be," answered Steve. "Poor fellow, your musket gave him a hard blow, and there is no wonder if he does feel dizzy and ill. Don't fire, Mac. The man is harmless, and we are not here to injure such as he. Listen to that. Cheers!"

"Cheers it is, sor. Them's Jim and Pete and the ithers. Sure they've beaten off the blackguards."

Wild shouts of triumph came across the snow-clad clearing and into the forest, and there could not be a doubt but that they were those of their comrades. Musket shots followed, and then cheer upon cheer, while Steve fancied he could even distinguish Jim's voice. But presently something else occupied his attention. Out of the tail of his eye he caught sight of a figure flitting through the trees away on his left.

"Hu-u-ush! Indians!" he whispered, pulling Mac by the sleeve of his hunting shirt. "Down, or they will see us. They are returning from the hillock."

"And would give all they have and a deal more, too, the bastes! if they could take us with thim," answered the Irishman, dropping on to his face behind a friendly tree and peering round at the enemy. "They're makin' for the guns, sor. Will ye allow thim to carry the weapons away?"

Steve gave an emphatic shake of his head.

"Indians or French are the same in this case, Mac. They are enemies. If I can prevent it they shall not take the guns. But perhaps they are only returning for their blankets. Count them. I fancy some have fallen."

They lay full length in the snow and watched as the silent band of discomfited Indians swept by them, gliding over the snow as if their shoes were parts of themselves. But the men who now returned wore a different appearance from those who had such a short while before made through the forest to attack the back of the hillock. This band, gliding so swiftly through the gaps between the trees in single file, was composed of men who had met with deep disappointment, and showed it. Their heads were bent. Some looked ashamed, while there was an air of savage fury on more than one of the clear-cut faces. More than ten of their original number were missing, while amongst the tall, copper-coloured braves who now filed along on their way to the open, were a dozen at least who had been wounded. There could be no doubt that that was the case, for behind them they left the trace of their snow-shoes and dark stains here and there which told their tale only too truly.

"I was right. They are making for the guns so as to get their blankets," whispered Steve. "Lucky for us that they did not come this way, or stumble upon our trail. Even a beaten brave notes every mark in the snow, and if even one suspected that we were here they would turn and pounce upon us. Listen, Mac. If they or the French try to take the guns, fire your piece and shout. Then move away to right or left, loading as you go, and fire again. They will then think that there are many of us."

A glance at the Irishman was sufficient to show that he had grasped his leader's meaning. Steve saw him look to the priming of his musket, and then slowly and cautiously get to his feet.

"They'll do what they can to help their friends," he said. "Look, if ye plaze, sor. There's a French sodjer, and he's givin' thim an order."

A man had suddenly come into sight as Mac spoke, and Steve watched him advance to meet the Indians, who were now engaged in recovering the blankets which they had left beside the guns. He spoke to them, made signs with his hands, and then snatched up one of the ropes which were attached to the sledges. For a minute, perhaps, the Indians stared at him, for this was a task which none of them cared to undertake. It was not real fighting, and, therefore, perhaps derogatory to them. However, a word from their chief set matters right, and in a little while a dozen had harnessed themselves to the tackle.

Crack! Steve's musket sent a leaden messenger at the group, a messenger which was no respecter of persons. It struck the muzzle of the rearmost weapon, with a resounding clang, glanced from it and passed through the calf of one of the Indians.

"Hit! One to you, sor," called out Mac. "Listen to the baste shoutin'. Bedad, Mac here will thry himsilf."

He put his musket to his shoulder, while the group about the guns suddenly divided. The shot had taken them utterly by surprise, for they had no notion that the enemy was behind them. Halting where they were, they looked at their chief, while the wounded man hastily tied a strip of cloth about his leg.

"A shot from behind, my brothers," said their chief. "It is some straggler who has been lying in the forest. We will return and slay him." He dropped the tackle and without another look or word strode off in the direction from which the bullet came. A dozen of his comrades followed his example, and ere Mac had time to sight, the band was clear of the guns, and already entering the forest.

Crack! For a second or two the smoke which had belched from the weapon hid the Indians from view, but a gust blew it rapidly aside, and when Steve looked there was the Indian chief lying full length in the snow, while the braves who had turned from the guns to support him stood dumbfounded, staring at his recumbent figure. For this was hardly the kind of warfare which met with their approval. These fierce Hurons, a portion of the so-called Christian Indians whom the French had induced, to the number of many thousands in all, for many tribes had come from Canada, to become their allies, were accustomed to fall upon unsuspecting enemies and butcher them in their sleep if possible, or at least before they had time to more than grasp a weapon. True, these braves could fight and fight courageously, as they had proved many a time; but they were little use when asked to assault a fort or to attack an enemy in the open. Their forte was the tracking of enemies in the forest, the stealthy following up of stragglers, wood-cutters, and the small parties sent to shoot meat. It was in expeditions of such a nature that they shone, for their backwoods knowledge, their natural cunning and stealth, enabled them to creep up without observation and wreak a fierce and terrible vengeance on a foe fewer than themselves in number, and more often than not utterly unsuspicious of danger. And here they were exposed in the open, a thought that was hateful to every one, and being fired at by unseen muskets aimed by men of whose presence they had had no notion.

As the chief fell they gathered about him with grunts of consternation, which were increased to howls of anger as Steve lifted his ponderous weapon again, sighted, and sent a bullet into their midst. With one exception they turned tail and fled.

"Hold!" cried the brave who had kept his ground, a tall and fine-looking Indian. "Are my brothers so easily scared? Will they suffer a chief to be slain and not retaliate? Surely we are children, for we run when but few men are there to fire at us. Follow, Hurons. Let us take these men who have fired, and to-night they shall burn over our fires while we watch them writhing."

It was a cheerful proposition for Steve and Mac to listen to, but one at which every brave who heard picked up heart and courage. Why, after all, should they retire from this field without prisoners, without one or more of these pale faces on whom to wreak their vengeance? Besides, they were not children. The very mention of such a word, the scoffing tones of their comrades, were enough to rouse them to desperation. They turned again, their war-whoops rang shrilly through the forest, and in a moment a stream of the painted braves was charging towards Steve and Mac.

"Take them coolly," said our hero, leaning his musket barrel in the fork of a tree. "Are you ready? Then fire."

Their shots rang out in rapid succession, and two of the charging braves threw up their hands and fell, laughing hideously, for no brave worthy of the name could die with a groan on his lips. He must laugh as if the pangs of death were nothing but an enjoyment.

"Now let us run," whispered Steve swiftly. "Perhaps our shots will bring help from the hillock. If not, we have a start, and may be able to get away. Throw your musket on one side and come along."

Tossing their weapons on to the snow, the two set off as fast as their legs would carry them, their pace being improved by the very fact of their having discarded their muskets, for the muskets then in use weighed perhaps three times as much as the present magazine rifle. Behind them came the Indian braves, in single file now, silent as hounds on the trail, their eyes shining strangely and a look of ferocity and rage on every face. Two hundred yards farther on Steve turned for an instant. He and Mac had not increased their lead, but at the same time they had not lost ground. The issue of this chase was still in doubt, for he and the Irishman might still reach the hillock before the Indians came up with them. On the other hand, a lucky shot from one of the braves might bring the chase to an end very summarily. As if to remind him of that fact, there was a sharp report behind, a report which went reverberating through the forest, and a bullet chipped a foot or more of frozen bark from a tree within a few inches of the fugitives. A second later Steve caught a glimpse of a figure some few yards in front of them. It was Jim, Hunting Jim, the fringe of his shirt and leggings blowing in the wind.

"Jest keep on towards the hillock, Cap'n," he said swiftly as Steve came abreast of him. "Yer know what's wanted. Draw them varmint into this here trap."

There was no time for more. Steve and Mac held on their course, darting over the frozen snow as if the danger were even greater. And after them came the Indian band, their nostrils agape, their fingers gripping the tomahawks which they hoped to use very shortly. But their hopes were doomed to disappointment, for within a minute they had run into the circle of trappers whom Jim had brought with him. There was a shout, a musket spoke out sharply, and then with a cheer the trappers threw themselves upon the braves.

"That war a find and no mistake," said Jim some ten minutes later as Steve stood gasping beside him. "I reckon Injuns was never so surprised in all their mortal lives, onless it was the fellers way back there at the divide when we were on the trail from the settlement. Waal, we wiped 'em out, and with what we killed before I guess as they won't be so keen on comin' our way again. There's twenty down at least, and half as many French. Boys, our Cap'n's given us a bit o' fightin'."

There was a smothered cheer at that, while the men gathered round their young leader.

"We must move again," said Steve sharply. "I thank you all for having come just in the nick of time. And now let us be moving. I want some of you to go down and see that the guns are not taken. If they are there get to work at the tackles and pull the weapons back to the hillock. We can draw the spikes with a little trouble, and then, boys——"

"He's the lad fer us," sang out Pete. "He ain't thinkin' of givin' up our fort, not even if five thousand of the Frenchies wants to come and attack us. He's goin' to put in guns, so as he can fire back the iron pills they've been sendin' us. Take it as done, Cap'n. Them guns'll be in position afore the night comes."

"Then you will look to it," responded Steve, smiling as the men crowded about him with another cheer. "Now there is other work. Jim, take some of the men and follow the enemy as far as the lake. Mac and I will return for our muskets and then scout round to make sure that not an Indian or Frenchman is left."

The party of trappers separated into three small bands at once, Steve watching Jim and Pete march their men away to carry out his instructions. Then he and Mac returned on their old trails, this time at a more reasonable pace, and having discovered their muskets dived into the forest and scouted there so as to make sure that none of the enemy were left. Now and again a far-off musket shot came to their ears, as the rearguard of the retreating force fired at the trappers, and on three or four occasions they came upon the dead bodies of Frenchmen or Indians who had fallen. But for the shots there was silence everywhere, the silence of the virgin forest, till a faint sound came to Mac's ears.

"Sure, it's a groan, so 'tis," he whispered. "Listen to it, sor. It'll be the ghost of one of them poor craturs."

The superstitious Irishman trembled, while beads of perspiration burst out on his forehead despite the lowness of the temperature. He looked scared, and turned appealingly to Steve.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the latter, emphatically. "Don't talk such rubbish. It must be some injured man. Listen, and then we shall get the direction."

They stood still for some five minutes, and then at last the same moaning sound came to their ears. Steve promptly turned to his right and set off at a a rapid pace, Mac following with the same scared look on his wrinkled features.

"Tracks of Indians," said Steve suddenly, as he came across the marks of snow-shoes. "They were carrying a wounded man. Look at the spots of blood. Keep your musket handy, Mac, and use it if there is need."

Some fifty yards farther on the two suddenly burst into a tiny clearing, and discovered there the figure of a man, lying propped against a tree, where he had undoubtedly dragged himself, as the marks in the snow plainly showed. He turned as Steve came forward, and the latter recognised him. It was the tall Frenchman who had commanded the attacking party. He was pale and wan, and evidently in great pain.

"Monsieur, I am your prisoner," he said bravely. "I was hit in the thigh, and I think my leg is broken. The Indians who were carrying me tossed me aside for fear that I should delay them."

Mac and Steve were on their knees at once, tending to the wounded officer. "We will make a litter and carry him out on to the lake," said Steve. "Find a dozen of the boys, Mac, and hurry. We must get back before the night comes."

Half an hour later the gallant French officer was lying in a litter constructed with the help of an Indian blanket and two stout poles, and was being conveyed by four of Steve's trappers, a relay of men following behind. Their muskets were slung across their shoulders, while one of the hunters strode ahead with a white rag tied to his ramrod. And so they passed through the forest and came to the lake, where, a mile away, the retreating force could be seen.

"Fire a round and wave the flag," shouted Steve. "That will call their attention."

A little later a dozen French soldiers returned, their arms also slung, while a lieutenant was in command of the party.

"You are our prisoner, colonel," said Steve to the wounded officer, "but we know that you are wounded, and will be better cared for by your own friends. We release you on your oath that you will take no further part in the war."

"Monsieur, I gladly give that promise, and call all here to witness it," came the answer, while the poor fellow feebly pressed our hero's hand. "Messieurs, you are brave and generous. I give you a thousand thanks. To you, monsieur, I say that I am for ever indebted. If ever you should be in need of help and I am present, call on Colonel St. Arnould de Prossen. He will help you to the utmost of his ability."

The parties saluted, the French with formality, the trappers in their own rough and ready manner. Then they turned from one another and went on their different ways, the French overjoyed at such handsome treatment, the trappers pleased to have been of service. As for Steve he little thought that he would soon have need of French help. He little dreamed that the time was near at hand when it would take the influence of a man stronger even than Colonel de Prossen to save him from death. He made back for the hillock, and that night there was no prouder commander than he, for he and his men had come well out of their first engagement.

Chapter XIII
A Traitor in the Camp

"To Captain Steve Mainwaring, His Majesty's Regiment of Scouts."

An Indian climbed up the steep rise of the hillock on the day following the French attack and presented a note to our hero. Steve turned it over in his gloved hand, looked at the writing, and then opened the missive.

"You have done well, and I congratulate you," ran the letter from the Commander of Fort William Henry. "Your messenger reached us late last night and explained the heavy firing which we had heard. For your information I now beg to tell you that I have suspicions that news is leaking out of this fort. The French have become acquainted with our dispositions within a few hours of our making them. There is treachery somewhere, and I look to you to discover who is the rascal. You will take steps to clear up this mystery, and will report in due course. I am sending you this day a further store of provisions, powder, and shot to suit the captured cannon."

There was the usual official ending to the letter and the signature of the Commander of Fort William Henry. Steve read it through again, folded it, and dismissed the Indian. Then he called Pete and Jim and discussed the matter with them.

"Ef there was fifty traitors and bearers of news it wouldn't surprise me," said Pete. "I ain't got no opinion of them colonists and reg'lars at Fort William Henry. No opinion at all. They ain't fer the most part fit to watch for Frenchmen, and much less for Injuns. What air the use of expecting 'em to be any good, when them critters the Frenchies could slip through trappers sich as we air? How do yer mean to get about the business, Cap'n? It seems no easy matter. You've got a mighty wide strip of country to watch, and ef it's one man bearin' the news, as seems probable, why, he can go any way, and slip in between us."

The question was a more than usually difficult one, and for a long while Steve sat and smoked, staring out through the exit of the fort, for the damage done by the exploding powder had now been more or less repaired. News was leaking out of the British fort, news which might be of importance. It was feared that the French, who were in great strength at Ticonderoga, might select some clear, fine night to start out from their fort, and time their march so as to arrive near Fort William Henry early in the morning. The commander who had sent Steve the message knew very well that he was sadly lacking in many respects, particularly in scouts, and the fear of this descent of the French weighed upon him. And now, in some way or other, he had learned that news was leaking, that plans he made to resist a French attack were promptly conveyed to the enemy.

"We have got to stop the leakage whatever happens," said Steve suddenly, "for if the French are always to know what our people are doing, they might easily take them unawares and slaughter the whole garrison. My idea is to take advantage of snowy and overcast weather."

"Snowy weather! Steve—beg pardon—Cap'n, that ain't like you," exclaimed Jim, somewhat sadly. "How on airth air a man to see sech a skunk when it's thick? It ain't possible. Ef there's one thing sartin it is that thick weather ain't the time to turn out and hunt."

"Not if we have to hunt a wide strip of land, Jim," answered Steve drily. "But we shall not have to do that. This fellow makes use of Lake St. George. Steady, Jim. I know you have your own ideas. So have I. Listen to them and then laugh as much as you like."

The tall trapper subsided at Steve's words, while Pete grinned.

"Fill up yer pipe, Huntin' Jim," he said with a laugh. "Reckon you've got to sit tight while the Cap'n says his say. This here's a palaver. When he's done, you can get to it with yer tongue. An old hoss like you air worth paying some attention to. So's Steve. He air a good 'un."

Jim was mollified. A smile wreathed his thin lips and wrinkled his mahogany features. He sat down on a lump of frozen snow, kicked off his snowshoes, and rammed a plug of tobacco into his pipe.

"Right there, Pete," he said. "Reckon when all's said and done that an old trapper air worth consultin' when it comes to a fix and there's time to think. But he ain't as good always when there's a muss and something's got to be done right away at once. Then it's the youngsters who air worth attendin' to. They air quicker like with their brains, and chaps like Steve here gets ideas like a flash. He's done it before."

"I was speaking of the lake, then," said Steve, with a smile, for he knew Jim well by now, and was aware of his impetuous nature. "I said that in my opinion this man, for we will take it for granted that one only is employed in the work, comes and goes over the ice, and most likely has a rendezvous somewhere near Fort William Henry, where he meets the rascal who gives away the information which the French require."

"Gives, Cap'n!" exclaimed Pete, with an oath. "Gives air a polite word, I guess. Chaps what act as traitors don't give much. They sell. I can't make out how a man, who's worth calling sich, can 'low hisself to do a dirty trick like that. It's selling country and friends, and p'raps wife and children, and all for a little gold."

"Mean men are employed in mean trades, Pete," answered Steve. "It may even be that this rascal who sells news from Fort William Henry is a Frenchman in disguise, an English-speaking ruffian with French sympathies. Any way, I fancy that is how the news leaks out. There is someone in the fort who sneaks into the forest and meets a French messenger. That messenger makes his way over the ice, of that I am sure, for the simple reason that when we came through the forest on our way here there was only one track, a fresh one, you will remember, which had been used by several men. This sort of business is done by a single messenger as a rule, and even supposing that I am wrong in saying that the man does not make use of the forest, he will not do so in future for fear of running into our scouting parties. He will also choose snowy weather, for our look-out station here gives us the opportunity of seeing anyone who leaves the fort at Ticonderoga."

"Blest ef he ain't a judge like his father," burst in Jim, smoking furiously. "Get on with it, Steve."

"There is really nothing more. We shall send out scouts every day, and night, too, when the weather is fine. When it comes on snowy, we'll send men down close to Fort William Henry, while a few of us will station ourselves across the lake and watch. The man who comes from Ticonderoga will cut over the ice in a direct line, for he has a long journey, and will take the shortest route. Look out there for yourselves. That line I speak of will pass the point which pushes out from this side of the lake. A line of watchers stretched for a quarter of a mile across that line ought to see something."

For a little while the trio stared out at the frozen and snow-covered surface of the lake, that lake at the head of which stood the French fort of Ticonderoga, while at its foot was Fort William Henry. And as they looked, Jim and Pete agreed to the full with what Steve had said.

"Reckon you're right, Cap'n," said the former. "This chap'll be caught somewheres within hail of that point ef he's caught at all. Waal, we've given them Frenchies and their varmint a knock already, and we'll let 'em have another. Give us a fill of yer 'bacca, Steve. Mine's done. Now, let's have some orders. It's time we shook down to reg'lar business."

It took only a little while to arrange the duties for the whole band. They were divided into two sections, each of which was to act as a rule independently of the other. They were to take night duty week by week, and when away from the fort, as it had now come to be called, were to scour as much of the country as possible, so as to prevent French parties from pouncing upon the woodcutters who were sent every day from Fort William Henry. This arrangement would always allow half the band to garrison the place, while the boom of one of the captured cannon would quickly bring the other in, if that were necessary. As to the weapons which had been captured, they had been mounted on the front face of the hillock, and a little thought and skilful handling by one of the band possessing some mechanical knowledge soon removed the spikes which Steve had driven into the vents. Men were told off from the two parties to act as gunners, and no sooner had the arrangements been completed than Mac took these men in hand, and commenced to drill them in their new duties. One other arrangement was made.

"If snow begins to fall, those who are out scouting will make at once for Fort William Henry," said Steve. "They will endeavour to hit upon the meeting-place where this rascal sells his news, while those who are resting here will file off to that point on the lake, and will draw a line out from it. It will be cold work, boys, but it may bring success, and thanks from our commander. I think, too, that it might help if the men engaged in this last duty were dressed as Indians, for then a Frenchman who happened to catch sight of one of our number would not take fright so easily. You see, we have very few braves working with us, and they seldom come even as far from the fort as this. The French have, on the other hand, some hundreds of Hurons, Micmacs, and other braves, and they make long excursions."

"It air a good thing that," agreed Pete. "What's more, there ain't a one of us that can't dress as an Injun in quick time, and act the part too. As for dress, there's plenty of the braves lyin' out in the forest."

For a week the scouting work of the band of trappers went on without incident. The two parties fell into their duties as if they were born to them, and all agreed that their lot was infinitely more pleasant than it would have been had they remained at Fort William Henry. Thanks to the care which Steve had taken, the men had ample time for rest and sleep, and either half of the band on their return from scouting always found a good meal ready, that being one of the duties of those resting in the fort.

"Reckon that 'ere attack and the way we beat 'em off has shook them Frenchies and their Injuns up a bit," said Jim, one night as he sat smoking in front of the cosy fire which blazed in the fort. "They've had their own way for a precious long time, and it's kind'er taken their breath away to have someone suddenly stop 'em. There ain't no news from Fort William Henry, Cap'n?"

"Only that the commandant thinks that whoever has been sending news to the enemy has been quiet this last week. It has been fine, Jim."

"Ay, and it'll snow afore many hours have gone. Jacob thar?"

"Waal, what air wrong? What's wanted?"

A bearded head, topped by a coon-skin cap of huge dimensions which covered the ears, was thrust into the opening of the fort, while the owner held the blanket aside with one of his thickly gloved hands. The firelight shone upon his tanned face, and upon the hundreds of tiny icicles which clung to his beard, his moustache, and eyebrows.

"Waal?" he repeated. "What's amiss?"

"Nothing, lad. But you air the boy on sentry go, as Mac calls it, and it's reasonable to think that you've looked to the weather. What's it doin'?"

"Nothing. Jest cold as ever it was. But it's cloudy. There ain't so many stars. Suppose it'll snow afore midnight."

"Then sing out when the first flake falls," called Jim. "Now, shut that 'ere door, Jacob, and quick with it. The wind comes in like a knife, and we're warm and smokin'."

The bearded face at the opening grinned, a grin denoting disgust rather than merriment.

"You was always like that, Huntin' Jim," Jacob growled. "Just wait till it's your turn for sentry go. I'll be the boy then to sit snug in thar and smoke, and I won't let you know it, oh no, of course I won't."

He was gone, and they heard his feet scrunching the frozen snow outside. The blanket fell into its place, and the men inside lounged again, spreading their hands to the flare, smoking and gossiping, for your trapper was not always the silent person he is sometimes painted, but a garrulous individual, fond of company, and making the most of it when he had the opportunity. A little later blankets were produced, and the whole party lay down with their feet to the fire, over which a huge iron pot of stew was left simmering.

"It air snowin'. Jest rouse yerselves and come out. It'll liven some of yer outside, for the wind air like a knife."

Jacob's bearded face appeared again, and he roused the trappers with no gentle hand. They sprang to their feet, rubbed the sleep from their eyes, and prepared to depart. Ten minutes later saw them all filing from the fort, all save two who were to act as guard. They were dressed in their usual hunting costumes, under which all wore the thickest and warmest garments that they could procure for otherwise they could never have endured such exposure. And now, in addition, each had an Indian blanket wrapped round him, while an eagle's crest was secured to the warm fur caps which all wore.

"We shall pass," said Steve, as he inspected his comrades in the firelight. "Now, one word more before we go. This must be the work of one man to-night. We shall be spread out over the ice, and should the Frenchman come, he will probably be seen by one only of our number. That one must pounce upon him promptly. Come along."

He turned to the doorway and went out, the band following close upon his heels. It was snowing outside, but not so hard as it did on the day when the Indians and French attacked them. It was, in fact, just the night that a man would choose for an expedition such as that of meeting a rascal from the British force, and buying information from him, for the snow would act as an excellent cloak, while it was not so thick as to prevent a man from making progress in it. Then again, though the wind was cold, it was not blowing strongly, and what there was came from the south.

Steve stepped over the snow wall which had been left in front of the fort, and gaining the steep slope beyond it, promptly slid down, his snowshoes scattering the white particles in a fine spray on either side. One by one the band followed, floundering down to the bottom. Then they moved off in single file, and very soon had plunged into the depths of the silent forest. Three miles took them to the bank of Lake St. George, when they struck out on to the ice, here clear of snow, for the wind had been in the opposite direction, and had swept it away. Their faces were now turned to the north, and they kept on in that direction for half an hour. Then Steve halted. It was still very dark, and snowing a little. But all were glad to find that the forest, which clad the point below them, sheltered them from the keen wind, and that it was considerably warmer.

"We will spread now," said Steve. "If you find that you are getting cold, swing your arms round your head. Don't beat them against your sides, for the sound would carry."

"It air likely, too, that some of the boys will fall asleep with this cold and standin' still," whispered Jim. "Steve, supposin' yer order the men to beat up and down past one another. That'll keep 'em lively, and it'll make it more sartin that no one can get through."

There were twelve in all, and their young leader at once adopted the suggestion.

"We'll divide again into two parties," he said. "Jim, you will have command of the five out farthest, making with yourself six. I'll command the other half. We will spread out for a quarter of a mile from this bank, you posting yourself at the farthest point. The men will be at intervals of about forty yards, and as soon as they are in position they will commence to beat to and fro, each couple exchanging places. In that way the ground will be thoroughly patrolled. Understand?"

"Right, Cap'n."

"Then take your men. This fellow may be along at any moment."

Within ten minutes the twelve watchers were in position, and for four long and weary hours the men continued to patrol the snow-covered ice. But trappers were used to such work, and made light of the exposure, though the wind was so cold, even here in the shelter, that untrained men would quickly have succumbed. However, Jim's idea helped not a little, for the men patrolled backwards and forwards without cessation, walking at a brisk pace, which kept their blood circulating and their extremities warm. And as they watched, the snow still fell silently and gently, sometimes almost ceasing altogether. The sky overhead was still overcast, but not so much as before, and that added to the reflection from this vast expanse of white made it possible for all the men to see a few yards in all directions, and to retain their relative positions. A deathly silence hung over the lake, broken only by an occasional crash, as the wind sent a mass of snow tumbling from the trees in the forest. Then the sound would reverberate down the long expanse of ice, and go rolling away to the mountains far beyond.

"It looks as if we were going to be disappointed, Jim," said Steve, as he walked along the line to speak to the hunter. We have been in position four solid hours, and have seen nothing."

"Which don't say as there ain't nothin' to be seen, Cap'n," was the answer. "I reckon it's somewhere's about three in the mornin', and a good hour for this feller to be returnin'. P'raps he slipped past here before we turned out of the fort. He may have made so far through the forest, and then dropped on to the ice when the snow commenced. Give him another two hours, and then we may as well get back to the fort and curl up in front of the fire. It's cold here. Them chaps down at Fort William Henry would ha' been asleep or frozen long ago."

They separated again, and another half hour passed without interruption. Then, suddenly, from the lower end of the lake there came a shout, then a second, and almost immediately afterwards the report of a rifle, heard very clearly at that distance, for the ice acted as a sounding-board. At once all was excitement amongst the waiting trappers. They lifted their coon-skin caps so as to make sure that they would hear even the slightest sound, and ranged up and down at an even faster pace. They were on the qui vive, and determined to catch anyone who attempted to pass them.

"Chances air that Pete and the other boys have come upon the meeting of these varmint," said Jim, as he drew close to Steve. "They've likely as not shot one of 'em, and will be followin' the other. Supposin' we extend a little."

The movement was carried out promptly, Steve stationing himself on the far extremity of the line. An hour later, when the excitement had died down and the trappers were beginning to murmur that there was little use in staying, for the man, if he actually existed, must have already passed, or have been shot lower down the lake, Steve thought he caught sight of a figure flitting across the snow quite a distance out on the lake. He could not be certain, but as it would not do to miss even a chance, he hurriedly set off in the direction, trusting that the trapper stationed next to him would be careful to notice that he had gone, and would follow on his traces. Dashing ahead at his fastest pace, it was not long before he came upon the marks of snowshoes, and, thanks to the increased light out there on the lake, made sure that two men had passed. Then he set off after them, sweeping over the snow at a rate which would have taxed the endurance of an Indian, for Steve was an old hand with snowshoes. A quarter of an hour later he again caught sight of a figure, and within a few minutes made out a second, in advance of the first. The time for action had arrived. He took one swift glance behind him, and thought he saw the dull outline of one of the trappers following in his wake. Then he started forward again, and soon was within easy distance of the last of the figures.

"Halt, there!" he shouted, as he lifted his musket to his shoulder. "Throw your hands up, both of you, and return at once."

There was an exclamation, a shout of alarm, and almost instantly the two men threw themselves on their faces in the snow. Then there was a short interval, followed by the loud report of a musket. A splash of flame illumined the darkness, while a leaden ball raced past Steve's head, and went humming into the distance. He was down in an instant, and having waited to make sure of the position of the enemy, he took careful aim and fired. Instantly there was a loud scream, one of the dark figures started up, staggered, and fell again, to roll over and over in the snow. Then something else happened. A dozen shots were fired from a spot some little distance to the right, while Indian war-whoops broke on the air.

"They must have had friends waiting for them," thought Steve, as he busily reloaded. "Where is Jim? He and the men should be here by now. Ah! That must be their fire."

He swung round suddenly, for more shots had rung out behind him, shots which he made sure came from the muskets of his friends. But in a moment he found that he was mistaken. A series of loud reports answered the last discharge, and the flashes told him that the muskets were aimed in his direction.

"Surrounded! The Indians have got between me and my friends," thought Steve. "I must creep away, and make the best of a bad position."

He knelt up stealthily, saw no one in his immediate neighbourhood, and commenced to creep on hands and knees. But he was not allowed to go very far, for one of the two dusky figures which he had been following rose at once, and strode back a few paces. There was the loud ring of a ramrod as the man drove in a bullet, and then came the report, the crash of which rang in Steve's ears. Stars flashed in front of his eyes, and the snow over which he was creeping turned to a blood-red hue. He fell all of a heap, and lay there for some few seconds, while the shouts of the combatants rang in his ears. Then he revived a little, staggered to his feet and fell again, this time with a crash which left him senseless. When he came to himself again he was being carried on the shoulders of four Indians, the snow had ceased, and the lights which twinkled in the distance were those of Ticonderoga. Steve was a prisoner.

Chapter XIV
Steve meets an Old Enemy

Steve Mainwaring was a prisoner, and as he realised that fact a thousand misgivings filled his mind. For to be taken by the French and their Indians was not a fate which even the boldest of the British courted.

"It may mean torture," he thought. "The French are not always able to control their Indians, and even if they were always capable of doing so, there are the backwoodsmen. We have heard what they are, and the fugitives from our settlements have given us many a tale of their ferocity."

No one, in fact, could guess in those rough days what pains were awaiting him if he fell into the hands of the French, and if there had not been sufficient evidence already, there was to be abundance in the near future. But that was hardly required. The thousands of unhappy settlers who had been driven from the forests and the backwoods were full of tales of brutality, of cruelty on the part of French pioneers and Indians alike. And it was a known fact that even if the French were kindly disposed and desirous of treating their prisoners well, they often had to stand aside and look on helplessly while the braves who were their allies wreaked a terrible vengeance on the unhappy people who had been captured. This was the price which New France had too often to pay for the allegiance of these monsters.

"I have been taken in fair fight, and am a prisoner of war," Steve said to himself. "That in itself should gain fair treatment for me. But what is the use of worrying? I am cold, and have a severe pain in my side. I suppose I have been wounded. Brothers, have you a blanket with which to cover me? My blood runs cold with the frost and my wound, and in a little while I shall be frozen."

He spoke the last aloud, addressing himself to the Indians who carried him, and speaking in the Mohawk tongue. All four instantly came to a halt, there was a grunt from the leading man on the right, and then Steve was gently laid on the ground.

"Cold, brother?" said the leader, a fine specimen of a brave, if the faint light could be trusted. "We will give you a covering and see to your comfort. Tell us, how comes it that you speak our tongue, or rather, that of the Mohawks? Have you lodged in their wigwams?"

Steve answered with a nod. "I have lived and hunted with them," he said feebly, for he was very weak. "They are firm friends of mine, as are others of the Iroquois nation. They call me Hawk."

At that there was another grunt, a grunt which denoted approval and the small amount of astonishment which the brave would permit himself to express.

"Hawk. Yes, we have heard of you. Then you were the chief of those whom we attacked a week ago?"

"I was. The fight was a fair and open one. The Hurons attacked boldly, but were unfortunate. Those who fell were as brave as those who lived to return to Ticonderoga."

This time all the bearers nodded their approval and grunted. For these Indian braves, with all their faults, with all their ferocity and their barbarous customs, had one redeeming virtue. They were brave, and they respected bravery. It was the one great virtue after which all strove, and if an enemy could speak well of their conduct, then he was for the time being a friend. More than that, these wild men of the backwoods, who had come so many miles to aid the French, were accustomed, like other Indian nations, to make much of their prisoners, provided they had fought with courage. A prisoner with them was a man who had already shown fortitude, and who, by becoming a prisoner, threw down the gage to his captors as it were, and boldly asserted that if they were bold, he was still bolder, that if they and their brothers could support hardship and pain amounting to the acutest agony, he could support the fiercest pains which they his captors could design. In fact, a prisoner was wont to boast loudly of his own superiority, to defy his captors to make him flinch, and when the time for the ordeal came, to endure hours of the most diabolical torture, and finally the pangs of death without so much as a groan, if possible with a smile of triumph on his quivering lips. And till the time for torture arrived he was a brother and a man, deserving of respect and attention, not a beast to be goaded and bullied and loaded with chains.

"Our brother is weak," said the brave. "He shall have a covering at once, and we will carry him with all comfort and care. The Hawk is our friend. We have heard of him. There are braves with us who met the Hawk and his brothers on the Mohawk river and down in the great valley beyond. Yes, of a truth, the Hawk is known to us as a man of bravery and energy." He went off over the snow at a swinging pace, and presently his tall figure appeared again, while in his hands he bore a huge rug of bearskin.

"This will keep the warmth in you, Hawk," he said kindly. "We will wrap you in it till you are completely covered. Then your blood will run again. You have lost much, brother. See, it is frozen on your shirt."

Steve had not felt the place before, but was glad to hear the news, for he reckoned that if there had been severe bleeding from his wound, as seemed to have been the case, for he was very weak, the frost had arrested further hæmorrhage, and perhaps saved his life. He submitted while the Indians wrapped him in the skin rug, and then felt himself lifted on their shoulders again. Very soon he was in a comfortable glow from head to foot, and that, combined with his weakness and weariness, caused his eyes to close, and he fell asleep. An hour or more later a light flashed in his face, for the dawn had not yet broken, and on looking round, he found that he was in a big hut, the walls of which were constructed of whole timbers. The light flashed from a candle lamp hanging to the rafters, and showed beside the walls and roof of the hut, the figures of the four Indians standing about him, and some twelve French soldiers and as many backwoodsmen, the irregulars on the side of France. Someone was speaking in the background, and for a time he listened to the words. Then some familiar note in the voice struck on his ear, and he found himself wondering who was speaking, wondering why the voice caused his heart to flutter so and his pulses to beat.

"One captured, you say? Only one? Peste! Is this carrying out my orders?"

There was a bang as the speaker's hand came down upon a table which stood close to one of the walls.

"That is so, monsieur. One only was taken," came the answer, and by dint of craning his head, Steve saw that it was a regular who spoke, dressed in the familiar uniform of the French line, but now swathed in warm furs, which, however, did not cover the chevrons, which showed that he was a sergeant. "One only, monsieur," he repeated, as if excusing himself.

"And for this fine capture you paid well no doubt. What was the price? Come, I am asking you."

The voice was very calm now. There was a note of satire in it, and those who listened could tell that the man who spoke was angry, that his calmness was only the prelude to an outburst of temper. The sergeant felt that, too. He drew himself up at attention, clapped his pike close against his shoulder, and looked askance at his commander.

"The price, monsieur. There was one killed by this prisoner, and three others who fell within the five minutes which followed. Yes, four were killed altogether, one of these being a messenger."

"Ah! I hear. But there were three messengers. That was the arrangement, friend, for if one were fool enough to be captured or killed, then there were two left. You follow, sergeant? You give me news of one of these fine fellows. I have been roused in haste, and have come here expecting other news. You do not bring it. You have only one beggarly prisoner to show. The whole tale, man. Let me have it."

This time the speaker's rage got the better of him, and he thumped on the table as an excited Frenchman might be expected to do, leaning far over it till his face was within an inch of the sergeant's. Not till then did Steve catch sight of his features, and when he did so, he fell back with a scarcely suppressed groan. It was Jules Lapon, the very man who had hunted him and his friends out of house and home.

"The whole tale, monsieur? You have heard it already, unless——"

"Unless what? Speak fool. I am but just out of my bed, and have gathered nothing, save the fact that you have returned without a single messenger."

"Then the news is still bad," came the faltering answer. "One messenger was killed within four miles of this, while the hunter who accompanied him as guide escaped unharmed. They were set upon near the British fort, and they alone escaped. The other two messengers are therefore accounted for. They were surrounded and attacked by hunters, just as the two who escaped were suddenly followed and fired on at this end of the lake. We put the enemy's numbers down at a dozen, and of those we captured one. He is here, monsieur."

The sergeant having unburdened himself of a disagreeable tale, endeavoured to distract his angry commander's attention from himself and his failure to the prisoner, and succeeded. Jules Lapon scowled at him for a little while, drumming with his fingers on the table. Then he cleared a path for himself by savagely sweeping the soldiers aside, and in a moment was standing over the prisoner.

"Bring a light and let us see the fellow," he growled. "Come, it is so dark in this hole that one cannot see. Are you sure, sergeant, that he is one of the enemy? You have done so well that perhaps you have half-killed and then captured one of our own side. Mistakes are made in the darkness."

"By white men, perhaps, monsieur," came the answer, an answer which caused Jules to writhe. "Indians were with us, monsieur, and they are not often in error."

"The lamp, man! Hold it higher, and pull that skin from his head. Ah!"

He started back as if he had been shot, and gripped instinctively at the tomahawk which was thrust in his belt. For a moment he looked thoroughly frightened, and then of a sudden his features assumed an expression of triumph and hate and of the most diabolical malice all intermingled till those who watched him were amazed and horrified. As for Steve, he was utterly bewildered. He knew well that the meeting between himself and this Jules Lapon would hardly prove a pleasant one, for the relations between them were somewhat strained. He and his friends had, in fact, obtained two consecutive victories over this Frenchman and his band of Indians, and no doubt those successes had roused the ire of Jules. But the tables were turned now, and had been for some time. For if Jules had lost at first, he was the conqueror now. He had turned Steve out of house and home, the settlement where the hunters had lived so happily was his, by right of conquest if by no other right, and now, to crown all, here was the Hawk his prisoner, wounded and completely in his hands. Then why so much triumph and hate?

"Ah. Then this is your prisoner. The only one you say, sergeant?"

The voice had become calm again. This Jules Lapon was now speaking in even tones suggestive of kindness.

"That is true, monsieur. The only one. He is the Hawk, the leader of those men whom we attacked a week ago. It is a fine capture."

"You have done well, sergeant. This man is of more value even than that news could have been. He is wounded, you say?"

"There is a bullet lodged in his ribs, Monsieur. He bled much, and is weak, so that we were forced to carry him. But he may have recovered now, and will stand if we lift him to his feet."

At a sign from the sergeant, the Indians raised their prisoner, and stood looking at him critically, wondering whether this pale face, of whom they had heard before, would fail now, or whether he would have sufficient courage to overcome his weakness. But they had little need to fear the result, for though Steve was weak, as weak and weary as a tired child, he had a determined spirit, and moreover felt intuitively as if this was the supreme moment of his life, as if his future, his safety in fact, depended upon his courage now. He set his teeth, placed his feet well apart, and stood erect, his face towering above that of Jules.

"The Hawk thanks the braves who carried him," he said, as steadily as he could. "They treated him honourably, and though he has no gift to make, he gives them thanks a thousand times."

"He is a man. We are satisfied," was the answer.

"He is more. He is a spy!"

Jules darted forward with a cry of delight, and snatched at Steve's skin cap, to the top of which was attached an eagle's crest.

"Tell me, sergeant," he said, swinging round with an air of triumph, "this prisoner was captured out on the ice. Had he a blanket?"

"Not when captured, monsieur. But all who supported him were dressed so. They had the appearance of Indians."

"Then this Hawk is a spy," shouted Jules. "He and his men came in this direction with one object. They came to spy, and in order to help them they dressed as Indians, knowing well that they would pass as such with a crest and a blanket about them, so long as the snow fell. This is a most important capture. See that this man is guarded well, and at dawn march out a firing party."

The sergeant brought his pike to his shoulder smartly as Jules swept a path to the door and departed. Steve watched him go, and then stared at the Indians and the soldiers and the backwoodsmen about him. He was too weak to take in the full significance of that last command, but vaguely wondered whether the firing party could be meant for him, and whether he was to be executed. And as he wondered, he listened to the chatter of those about him. It was evident that many of the backwoodsmen, rough and brutal men as many were, who had become tainted with the cruelty of the Indians, approved of the sentence. They crammed tobacco into their pipes and smoked furiously, while they acclaimed the decision of their leader with many an oath and with many a glance at the prisoner. Some of the regulars were of their opinion also, but not so the sergeant.

"Disguise! Spy!" he cried, some minutes later, having talked the matter over with some of his comrades. "This brave lad whom we have taken had no more idea of spying here than I have of setting a watch at Fort William Henry. I'll be bound that he and his friends knew of the messengers going to the English fort, and set a trap for them. They guessed that an Indian dress might help their plans, and adopted it. Why, the same is done here amongst ourselves. Even this commander of ours, who shouts into one's throat, and orders all as if they were dogs, dresses as a brave, ay, and goes out with a following of Hurons."

"Which does not alter the case as it stands, friend of the three stripes," answered one of the trappers. "This leader of ours, a backwoodsman like ourselves, fights in the garb that best suits him, chancing capture. This fool here decks himself out in feathers, and is captured. Both run the same risk. One is taken and shot as a natural course, while the other, the smarter man, you understand, lives to fight another day. As to shouting down a man's throat, there are some dull dogs who want a deal of that, and still remain dull."

For a little while it looked as if the two would come to blows, for the sergeant strode over to the trapper who had spoken, a flush of anger on his face. But evidently he thought better of the matter, turned to the Indians, and in a little while was accompanying Steve out of the hut. Borne on the shoulders of the braves, the prisoner was transferred to a second hut, where he was placed on a low couch.

"Whatever happens you shall have food and some attention, friend," said the sergeant. "I will leave the Indians to see to your wound, while I myself get you some victuals. Cheer up. You have still a friend or two left in the world."

He smiled kindly at our hero, and, taking a lamp, went out of the hut, speaking a few words to the Indians as he went. The latter at once set about tending to Steve's wound, for these sons of the lake and forest were for the most part excellent surgeons. One placed a jar over the fire, and blew at the embers till the flames roared round it. A second crept from the hut, to return some ten minutes later with some soft fleecy material, while beneath his arm he carried a bundle wrapped in bark. Opening the last, he disclosed a heap of dried leaves, which he commenced to pound between two stones, while some he even chewed. A little water was added to the mass, and the whole worked into a soft brown paste.

"The Hawk will let us see and tend this wound, well knowing that we have had experience," said the chief who had already shown his friendly spirit. "We will carry you close to the fire, so that you will feel no cold. That is well. The Hawk has won our favour. He does not flinch at the prospect of a death which would be an eternal dishonour to even the most cowardly brave. Fear not. There are men here who will see that this indignity is not allowed. If die you must, there are other and nobler ways of taking the life of a prisoner."

Little did the fine fellow know what pangs he was causing our hero, for to Steve, if he were condemned to die as a spy, shooting would be infinitely preferable to the death by torture which the Indians would inflict. He knew their customs well, and he told himself over and over again that it would be better far to stand for one brief minute and face the muskets than to be feasted for a day or more by these braves, to be petted and praised by them, knowing full well that all the while their preparations were being completed for the orgie of the morrow, when all their diabolical ingenuity would be called into play to provide a slow death for him, which in their opinion was alone worthy of a warrior. Ugh! The very idea made him shiver.

"You are cold. Cover our brother with the skin again," said the chief. "Now, let us remove the shirt, and see what harm has come to him."

Very gently they cut the leather shirt away and removed his clothing till the wound was uncovered. By then the water in the jar placed over the fire was comfortably hot, and with some of this and a portion of the fleecy material the chief bathed the place till the nature of the injury could be seen.

"Ah! The bullet struck beneath the arm, Hawk, and ran round the ribs. It is here. I feel it beneath my fingers."

The chief ran the tips of his fine fingers over the ribs, and traced the direction of the bullet from the entrance wound to the spot where the hard mass could be felt to move under the skin.

"Some water, brother," he demanded. "Nay, hotter than that. Heat it till it bubbles."

He sat patiently beside Steve while the jar was placed on the fire again. And presently, when the water was boiling, he strode over to it, and plunged the blade of his keen hunting knife deep into the contents.

"The Hawk has felt pain before," he said. "He will not flinch. The bullet shall be within my hand in less time than it takes to count the fingers. Lie so. Now, Hawk."

Steve shut his teeth again, and never so much as winced as the keen blade, wielded by a dexterous hand, cut down on the bullet. It was extracted in a few seconds, and when Steve opened his eyes, there it was in the chief's hand.

"Good," grunted the brave. "The worst is done. We will dress the wound now."

Once more he had recourse to the jar of water. A wide piece of doe skin was steeped in the boiling water first, and then, having been wrung out, was made the receptacle for the brown paste already prepared. The skin was then folded round, screwed up at the ends, and again plunged into the water, and left there for a couple of minutes.

"It is ready," said the chief. "Squeeze the mass dry, and bring the skin to me."

Up to that moment the wound had been smarting, particularly that portion where the Indian had made use of his knife. But a minute later, after the hot brown paste had been applied and covered by a pad of the fleecy material, the pain disappeared, and Steve felt huge relief. He was carefully bound up with long strips of doe skin, his shirt replaced, and in a little while he was lying back on the couch, expressing thanks to the Indians.

"Here is the food, and you look as if you could enjoy it," said the sergeant, entering a little later. "Come, drink this stuff. It is hot and steaming, and will put warmth into your body."

The kind-hearted fellow sat down and watched his prisoner eat and drink. Then he propped his head up on the couch, drew the rug well over him, and sat staring thoughtfully at his figure till Steve's eyes closed and he slept.

"A fine lad, and one who fights stoutly for a lost cause," murmured the sergeant, as he watched the sleeper. "To look at him as he lies there, one could take him for one of our country, though he is bigger and stouter than we are built. And he speaks French, too. Yes, I remember that. It struck me as strange when I heard him answer this Jules Lapon. Can it be that he is partly French, his mother perhaps being one of our land? There have been many such marriages, and often they have turned out well."

For a little while he lapsed into silence again, till his eye caught the gleam of a long, thin streak of light which was pushing its way through a chink in the roughly fashioned door. It was dawn, the hour for the firing party, and the sergeant rose at once to his feet.

"We shall see," he said aloud, as he moved towards the door, but still kept an eye on Steve. "This lad is a brave one, and I am taken with him. That is strange now, for up to this an Englishman has been to me, as to all my comrades, just an Englishman, fit to be slain if need be. I have pitied them often, to be sure, for it is hard to see them given over to these braves. But it is necessary to keep the Indians in good temper, and, therefore, what is necessary should not be grumbled at. Why is it that this young Hawk has gained my goodwill?"

He was of a reflective turn of mind, this French sergeant, and stood again with his hand on the latch of the door, staring hard at Steve and thinking aloud.

"Peste take it! Why is this? Ah! It must be this Jules Lapon. I have hated him ever since he came to us, and more so now that he is our commandant in the absence of the colonel. He is a hard man, or else he would never order the execution of a white prisoner without some sort of trial. I doubt that he has the power. The colonel could intervene, if only he were not chained to his bed with a broken thigh. Mon Dieu!"

He strode across the floor of beaten and frozen earth, and shook the sleeper vigorously. His face was flushed, and there was an air of excitement about him.

"Pardon, monsieur, but I wish to ask a question. Monsieur, you are awake, and I ask pardon for disturbing you. But this is a matter of importance."

Steve opened his eyes wearily, and acknowledged the presence of the sergeant somewhat peevishly, for he had been enjoying a most refreshing and dreamless sleep. He rubbed his eyes, stared at the sergeant, and then caught sight of the streak of light penetrating through the door. Then his senses returned with a rush, and he remembered.

"The dawn, sergeant," he said. "Then this Jules Lapon will carry out his purpose. I am ready. Help me to get to my feet."

"Not now, monsieur. I am about to go for the firing party, but wish to ask an important question. Tell me, was it you who aided monsieur le colonel, Colonel St. Arnould de Prossen, till a week ago the commandant of this force?"

He waited for the answer eagerly, as if his own life depended on it, and gave a cry of joy as Steve replied that it was he who had found the unfortunate soldier, and who had had him carried on to the lake and handed over to his friends.

"Then rest easy, monsieur. I go to the colonel, and we shall see if this firing party assembles. Sleep again. Have I not said that you have many friends? Even the Indians would save you now, not because they wish to reserve you for torture, but because you have shown bravery and much honour to themselves."

He pressed Steve gently back on to the couch, and raced from the hut. A few minutes later he was knocking at the door of his colonel's quarters, thumping on the logs with an energy which brought shouts of anger from within, and very soon afterwards the squat figure of a French soldier servant came to the door.

"Peste!" he exclaimed. "Are you mad, sergeant, to come and beat so on the commandant's door? Go away before it is light enough for me to recognise you. Go, I say, or I shall know you, and then there will be trouble."