But Willet, who commanded at that point, gave no order to retreat.  He and all of his men continued to fire as fast as they could reload and take aim.  Yet to choose a target became more difficult, as the firing from the fleet made a great cloud of smoke about it, in which the French and Indians were hidden, or, at best, were but wavering phantoms.  Robert’s excited imagination magnified them fivefold, but he had no thought of shirking the battle, and he crept to the very brink, seeking something at which to fire in the clouds of smoke that were steadily growing larger and blacker.

The foes upon the lake fought mostly in silence, save for the crackle of their rifles, but Robert became conscious presently of a great shouting behind him.  In his concentration upon their own combat he had forgotten the main battle; but now he realized that it was being pressed with great fury and upon a half circle from the north and west.  He looked back and saw that the forest was filled with smoke pierced by innumerable red flashes; the rattle of the rifles there made a continuous crash, and then he heard a tremendous report, followed by a shout of dismay from the rangers.

“What is it?” he cried.  “What is it?”

Willet, who was crouched near him, turned pale, but he replied in a steady voice.

“St. Luc has brought a field piece, a twelve-pounder, I think, and they’ve opened fire with grape-shot.  They’ll sweep the whole forest.  Who’d have thought it?”

The battle sank for a moment, and then a tremendous yell of triumph came from the Indians.  Presently, the cannon crashed again, and its deadly charge of grape took heavy toll of the rangers.  Then the lake and the mountains gave back the heavy boom of the gun in many echoes, and it was like the toll of doom.  The Indians on both water and shore began to shout in the utmost fury, and Robert detected the note of triumph in the tremendous volume of sound.  His heart went down like lead.  Rogers crept back to Willet and the two talked together earnestly.

“The cannon changes everything,” said the leader of the rangers.  “More than twenty of my men are dead, and nearly twice as many are wounded.  ’Tis apparent they have plenty of grape, and they are sending it like hail through the forest.  The bushes are no shelter, as it cuts through ’em.  Dave, old comrade, what do you think?”

“That St. Luc is about to have his revenge for the defeat we gave him at Andiatarocte.  The cannon with its grape turns the scale.  They come on with uncommon fury!  It seems to me I hear a thousand rifles all together.”

St. Luc now pressed the attack from every side save the south.  The French and Indians in the fleet redoubled their fire.  The twelve-pounder was pushed forward, and, as fast as the expert French gunners could reload it, the terrible charges of grape-shot were sent among the rangers.  More were slain or wounded.  The little band of defenders on the high cliff overlooking the lake at last found their corner too hot for them and were compelled to join the main force.  Then the French and Indians in the fleet landed with shouts of triumph and rushed upon the Americans.