There was something unlooked for, also, in the manner in which the party of strangers were lounging about, at a moment like that, seemingly doing nothing, or preparing for no service.  Joyce, who was a man of method, and was accustomed to telling off troops, counted no less than forty-nine of these idlers, most of whom were lounging near the log entrenchment, though a few were sauntering about the clearing, conversing with the wood-choppers, or making their observations listlessly, and seemingly without any precise object in view.

“This is the most extr’or’nary sight, for a military expedition, I have ever seen, your honour,” whispered Joyce, after the two had stood examining the position for quite a minute in silence.  “A tolerable good log breast-work, I will allow, sir, and men enough to make it good against a sharp assault; but nothing like a guard, and not so much as a single sentinel.  This is an affront to the art.  Captain Willoughby; and it is such an affront to us, that I feel certain we might carry the post by surprise, if all felt the insult as I do myself.”

“This is no time for rash acts or excited feelings, Joyce.  Though, were my gallant boy with us, I do think we might make a push at these fellows, with very reasonable chances of success.”

“Yes, your honour, and without him, too.  A close fire, three cheers, and a vigorous charge would drive every one of the rascals into the woods!”

“Where they would rally, become the assailants in their turn, surround us, and either compel us to surrender, or starve us out.  At all events, nothing of the sort must be undertaken until we have carried out the plan for the rescue of Major Willoughby.  My hopes of success are greatly increased since I find the enemy has his principal post up here, where he must be a long half-mile from the mill, even in a straight line.  You have counted the enemy?”

“There are just forty-nine of them in sight, and I should think some eight or ten more sleeping about under the logs, as I occasionally discover a new one raising his head.—­Look, sir, does your honour see that manoeuvre?”

“Do I see what, serjeant?—­There is no visible change that I discover.”

“Only an Indian chopping wood, Captain Willoughby which is some such miracle as a white man painting.”

The reader will have understood that all the hostile party that was lounging about this clearing were in Indian guise, with faces and hands of the well-known reddish colour that marks the American aborigines.  The two soldiers could discover many evidences that there was deception in these appearances, though they thought it quite probable that real red men were mingled with the pale-faces.  But, so little did the invaders respect the necessity of appearances in their present position, that one of these seeming savages had actually mounted a log, taken the axe from the hands of its owner, and begun to chop, with a vigour and skill that soon threw off chips in a way that no man can successfully imitate but the expert axe-man of the American interior.