“We have come upon them almost as if we had dropped from the clouds,” said Langlade, exultingly, to Robert.  “When they thought the Marquis de Montcalm was in Montreal, lo! he was here!  It is the French who are the great leaders, the great soldiers and the great nation!  Think you we would allow ourselves to be surprised as Oswego has been?”

Robert made no reply.  His heart sank like a plummet in a pool.  Already he heard the crackling fire of musketry from the Indians who, sheltered in the edge of the forest, were sending bullets against the stout logs of Fort Ontario, but which could offer small resistance to cannon.  And while the sharpshooting went on, the French officers were planting the batteries, one of four guns directly on the strand.  The work was continued at a great pace all through the night, and when Robert awoke from an uneasy sleep, in the morning, he saw that the French had mounted twenty heavy cannon, which soon poured showers of balls and grape and canister upon the log fort.  He also saw St. Luc among the guns directing their fire, while Tandakora’s Indians kept up an incessant and joyous yelling.

The defenders of the stockade maintained a fire from rifles and several small cannon, but it did little harm in the attacking army and Robert was soldier enough to know that the log walls could not hold.  While St. Luc sent in the fire from the batteries faster and faster, a formidable force of Canadians and Indians led by Rigaud, one of the best of Montcalm’s lieutenants, crossed the river, the men wading in the water up to their waists, but holding their rifles over their heads.

Tandakora was in this band, shouting savagely, and so was Langlade, but Robert and the other prisoners, left under guard on the hill, saw everything distinctly.  They had no hope whatever that the chief fort, or any of the forts, could hold out.  Fragments of the logs were already flying in the air as the stream of cannon balls beat upon them.  The garrison made a desperate resistance, but the cramped place was crowded with women—­settlers’ wives—­as well as men, the commander was killed, and at last the white flag was hoisted on all the forts.

Then the Indians, intoxicated with triumph and the strong liquors they had seized, rushed in and began to ply the tomahawk.  Montcalm, horrified, used every effort to stop the incipient butchery, and St. Luc, Bourlamaque and, in truth, all of his lieutenants, seconded him gallantly.  Tandakora and his men were compelled to return their tomahawks to their belts, and then the French army was drawn around the captives, who numbered hundreds and hundreds.

It was another French and Indian victory like that over Braddock, though it was not marked by the destruction of an army, and Robert’s heart sank lower and lower.  He knew that it would be appalling news to Boston, to Albany and to New York.  The Marquis de Montcalm had justified the reputation that preceded him.  He had struck suddenly with lightning swiftness and with terrible effect.  Not only this blow, but its guarantee of others to come, filled Robert’s heart with fear for the future.