that the line would never come to an end.  They flitted past like shadows in the moonlight, in absolute silence, all crouching and running in the same swift stealthy fashion.  Last of all came a man in the fringed tunic of a hunter, with a cap and feather upon his head.  He passed across like the others, and they vanished into the shadows as silently as they had appeared.  It was five minutes before Du Lhut thought it safe to rise from their shelter.

“By Saint Anne,” he whispered, “did you count them?”

“Three hundred and ninety-six,” said Amos.

“I made it four hundred and two.”

“And you thought that there were only a hundred and fifty of them!” cried De Catinat.

“Ah, you do not understand.  This is a fresh band.  The others who took the blockhouse must be over there, for their trail lies between us and the river.”

“They could not be the same,” said Amos, “for there was not a fresh scalp among them.”

Du Lhut gave the young hunter a glance of approval.  “On my word,” said he, “I did not know that your woodsmen are as good as they seem to be.  You have eyes, monsieur, and it may please you some day to remember that Greysolon du Lhut told you so.”

Amos felt a flush of pride at these words from a man whose name was honoured wherever trader or trapper smoked round a camp fire.  He was about to make some answer when a dreadful cry broke suddenly out of the woods, a horrible screech, as from some one who was goaded to the very last pitch of human misery.  Again and again, as they stood with blanched cheeks in the darkness, they heard that awful cry swelling up from the night and ringing drearily through the forest.

“They are torturing the women,” said Du Lhut.

“Their camp lies over there.”

“Can we do nothing to aid them?” cried Amos.

“Ay, ay, lad,” said the captain in English.  “We can’t pass distress signals without going out of our course.  Let us put about and run down yonder.”

“In that camp,” said Du Lhut slowly, “there are now nearly six hundred warriors.  We are four.  What you say has no sense.  Unless we warn them at Sainte Marie, these devils will lay some trap for them.  Their parties are assembling by land and by water, and there may be a thousand before daybreak.  Our duty is to push on and give our warning.”

“He speaks the truth,” said Amos to Ephraim.  “Nay, but you must not go alone!” He seized the stout old seaman by the arm and held him by main force to prevent him from breaking off through the woods.

“There is one thing which we can do to spoil their night’s amusement,” said Du Lhut.  “The woods are as dry as powder, and there has been no drop of rain for a long three months.”

“Yes?”

“And the wind blows straight for their camp, with the river on the other side of it.”

“We should fire the woods!”

“We cannot do better.”