Dave and Barringford had found quarters with some rangers down near the river front, and here the two remained day after day, each wondering what they had best do next.

“I don’t feel much like returning to Oswego,” said the young soldier. “I want to hear something from Henry before I do that.”

“That’s jest my way o’ looking at it, Dave,” answered the old frontiersman. “But it don’t seem like we was to hear a word, does it?”

“I can’t imagine where Henry went to, Sam. If he left Quebec he would be almost certain to fall into the hands of the French or their murderous Indian allies.”

Several of the rangers had work to do along the river front, and this lasted until late one Saturday night. Dave and Barringford had been helping the men at their task, but when it was finished the young soldier did not feel in the humor to retire, and he and Barringford sat in a little watch-house, the frontiersman smoking and both talking over the past, until it was well after midnight.

Down the dark stream floated huge cakes of ice and masses of driftwood, for the day had been rather warm and had freed much that had before been ice-bound. As the two gazed out at this they were suddenly aroused by a faint cry for help.

“What’s that?” asked Dave.

“Somebuddy callin’,” answered Barringford, peering forth on the river.

The cry was repeated, in a French voice, and then, at a great distance from shore, they made out the form of a man stretched flat on a big mass of drifting ice.

“Some soldier!” ejaculated Dave. “More than likely he is half dead from the cold.”

“If we had a boat we might save him,” said Barringford.

Both rushed around to see if a boat was handy, and their actions aroused a number of others near the watch-house.

In the meantime the mass of ice had drifted further down the St. Lawrence, to where the frigate Racehorse lay in her dock. The watch on the deck of the frigate also heard the sufferer and saw him put up an arm pleadingly.

“A castaway, sir,” said the sailor, running to Captain Macartney.

“Where?” demanded the master of the Racehorse.

“On a cake of ice, sir. He is about frozen.”

Captain Macartney wasted no time in ordering a small boat to the rescue, and, running along the shore, Dave and Barringford saw the man brought in and taken aboard of the frigate.

The man who was rescued proved to be a French cannoneer. At first he could not speak, but after being warmed up he let out the information that, while trying to land at Cap-Rouge with a number of others, the boat had been upset. He was closely questioned, and the news was obtained that General Lévis was marching upon Quebec with all possible speed, with a view to catching Murray unawares.

“Our commander must know of this at once,” said the master of the Racehorse, and he had some of his sailors carry the rescued Frenchman on a litter to General Murray’s headquarters at three o’clock Sunday morning.

Soon the drums and bugles were sounding, and Dave and Barringford, who had retired to sleep after seeing the Frenchman rescued, leaped up with the other soldiers. “The French are marching on Quebec!” was the cry. “They have already attacked the outposts at Lorette!”

By daybreak Murray was on the move, with about a thousand men and several pieces of cannon. Most of the field-pieces had to be pulled by the soldiers themselves, and when Dave and Barringford asked for permission to join the outgoing army, a captain of artillery immediately pressed them into service.

“Ye can’t go as soldiers,” he said, with a grin. “But come on as horses, and welcome.”

“I’m not afraid to do it,” responded Dave quickly, and caught hold of the long rope, and seeing this Barringford did the same.

A nasty, cold rain was falling, and though sixteen men were dragging at the rope of each piece of artillery, it was all they could do to move the cannon through the mud and slush. Sometimes some of the soldiers would drop out and others would take their places, but Dave and Barringford stuck to their posts.

It was not long before St. Foy was reached. The garrison was being hotly pressed by the French when General Murray’s artillery opened a fire on the enemy, driving them back with considerable loss.

“Make ’em run!” was the English cry, and soon the foot soldiers were charging straight past the town. Dave and Barringford were in this charge, and for ten minutes were exposed to a raking fire from two sides. Neither was struck, although Barringford had the sleeve of his coat torn by a bullet.

But Murray knew that the French outnumbered him, and that it would be foolish just then to try to hold St. Foy. His object was to offer protection to the various garrisons falling back on the city, and in this he was successful. Soon St. Foy was abandoned, and the church, containing a large amount of military stores, blown up.

The fight had been a hard one, and when the men got back to Quebec, some of them were half perished with the wet and cold. Dave himself was in a shiver, and when a big bonfire was lit in a public square he got as close to it as possible to dry and warm himself.

Although he had fallen back on Quebec, General Murray did not intend to remain there. He felt that the walls of the city were in no condition to withstand a bombardment at the hands of Lévis, and that to raise earthworks outside would be an almost impossible task, owing to the half-frozen condition of the ground.

“If we remain here we shall have to stand a long siege,” said he to his fellow-officers. “Lévis is exhausted by his forced marches. Let us fall upon him without delay.”

Officers and soldiers were willing to meet the French, and some even left the hospital that they might take part in the coming contest. All was bustle and excitement, and soon Murray had around him his whole force of about three thousand soldiers.

The march forward was as tiresome as the one to St. Foy had been. Five hundred men dragged twenty-four pieces of artillery and the tumbrils containing the ammunition. In spots the cannon and carts sank down hub-deep, and had to be pried out with logs and poles. More than one soldier fell into a hole up to his waist and had to be dragged out to save him from being frozen to death.

“It’s no fun, that is sure,” said Dave, as he puffed for breath. He had hold of the rope attached to a cannon.

“We long ago made up our minds thet war wasn’t fun, Dave,” answered Barringford, who was just in front of him, and also on the rope.

Besides the grenadiers and artillery there were with Murray a company of rangers under Hazen and another company of volunteers under MacDonald. The rangers and volunteers were on the left flank, and with these went Dave and his old friend when the time came for battle.

The English army had reached the ground occupied by Montcalm when the French general was shot down, and here they came to a temporary halt. In the meantime General Lévis was moving from St. Foy to a ridge of ground known as Sillery Wood. He had not yet had time to place his whole army in position.

“Now is the time to strike,” said General Murray, and he ordered another advance.

In a moment more the cannon spoke up, followed by the continued rattle of musketry. The onslaught was a fierce one, and in certain quarters the French were seen to give way. The smoke of battle was thick, and cannon ball and bullet often sent the mud and slush flying in all directions.

“The French are retreating!” was the cry a little later, and again the English troops pressed forward. But this surmise was incorrect. The enemy were merely taking a new position, and soon the English found themselves at a disadvantage, having given up a stretch of high ground for one which was low and uncertain.

The left flank of the army had been brought up close to the edge of a wood, and soon the French began to pour into the ranks a deadly fire that laid many a soldier low. Not far away were two block-houses, and these were filled with Canadian sharpshooters, who began to pick off the officers one after another.

“We must take the block-houses,” was the order received, and the volunteers rushed at one stronghold, while the rangers rushed at the other.

The din of battle was now terrific, and for a few moments Dave could scarcely hear when spoken to, or when a command was given. Bullets were flying in all directions, and he was struck twice, once in the fleshy part of the arm, and once in the little finger of his left hand. Barringford was also hit in the shoulder, but kept on fighting, regardless of the loss of blood.

“Up and at them!” was the constant cry. “Up and at them!” And then the volunteers made straight for one of the block-houses, and in a few minutes the enemy were retreating with all possible speed.

But the block-house could not be held, for the French were now moving on the rangers and volunteers in a larger number than before. The white uniforms covered the edge of the wood, and in a minute the command to which Dave and Barringford had attached themselves was almost surrounded.

“We can’t hold this nohow,” came from Barringford, who was re-loading his smoking musket. “Them Frenchm——”

“Down!” cried Dave, and shoved the old frontiersman backward. Then came a report from behind the block-house, and Barringford pitched over on his side and lay as one dead.

Dave’s musket was up in an instant, and taking careful aim he fired. He hit the man who had brought Barringford low, and the Frenchman went back with a ball through his breast.

“We must get out of here!” was the cry a few minutes later, and the retreat was sounded.

Dave bent over Barringford and found the frontiersman still breathing. He was shot in the head, just above the right ear, and covered with blood.

“Oh, if he only lives!” thought the young soldier. The idea of losing his old friend was too horrible to contemplate. Slinging his musket over his shoulder, he raised Barringford in his arms and gazed around helplessly.

“I’ll help ye, boy!” cried a ranger, who was running past, and he took hold of Barringford’s lower limbs, while Dave took him under the arms. Thus they ran a hundred yards or more, when two other volunteers came to their assistance, and Barringford was carried to the rear, and, later on, back to the general hospital.

But the fighting was not yet at an end, and it continued for half an hour longer, the English doing their best to drive Lévis from the strong position he now occupied. But this was impossible, and at last General Murray’s army began to move back to Quebec, keeping the retreat well covered.

“The victory is ours!” came the French cry, and they started in pursuit. But General Lévis soon saw that the English were not retreating in disorder, and so ordered his soldiers to hold the ground they had gained and go no further.