“What do you think of it, Du Lhut?” he asked.

“I think very badly of it.  We are losing men much too fast.”

“Well, my friend, what can you expect?  When a thousand muskets are all turned upon a little place like this, some one must suffer for it.  Ah, my poor fellow, so you are done for too!”

The man nearest him had suddenly fallen with a crash, lying quite still with his face in a platter of the sagamite which had been brought out by the women.  Du Lhut glanced at him and then looked round.

“He is in a line with no loop-hole, and it took him in the shoulder,” said he.  “Where did it come from then?  Ah, by Saint Anne, look there!” He pointed upwards to a little mist of smoke which hung round the summit of a high oak.

“The rascal overlooks the stockade.  But the trunk is hardly thick enough to shield him at that height.  This poor fellow will not need his musket again, and I see that it is ready primed.”  De la Noue laid down his cane, turned back his ruffles, picked up the dead man’s gun, and fired at the lurking warrior.  Two leaves fluttered out from the tree and a grinning vermilion face appeared for an instant with a yell of derision.  Quick as a flash Du Lhut brought his musket to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.  The man gave a tremendous spring and crashed down through the thick foliage.  Some seventy or eighty feet below him a single stout branch shot out, and on to this he fell with the sound of a great stone dropping into a bog, and hung there doubled over it, swinging slowly from side to side like a red rag, his scalp-lock streaming down between his feet.  A shout of exultation rose from the Canadians at the sight, which was drowned in the murderous yell of the savages.

“His limbs twitch.  He is not dead,” cried De la Noue.

“Let him die there,” said the old pioneer callously, ramming a fresh charge into his gun.  “Ah, there is the gray hat again.  It comes ever when I am unloaded.”

“I saw a plumed hat among the brushwood.”

“It is the Flemish Bastard.  I had rather have his scalp than those of his hundred best warriors.”

“Is he so brave then?”

“Yes, he is brave enough.  There is no denying it, for how else could he be an Iroquois war-chief?  But he is clever and cunning, and cruel—­ Ah, my God, if all the stories told are true, his cruelty is past believing.  I should fear that my tongue would wither if I did but name the things which this man has done.  Ah, he is there again.”

The gray hat with the plume had shown itself once more in a rift of the smoke.  De la Noue and Du Lhut both fired together, and the cap fluttered up into the air.  At the same instant the bushes parted, and a tall warrior sprang out into full view of the defenders.  His face was that of an Indian, but a shade or two lighter, and a pointed black beard hung down over his hunting tunic.  He threw out his hands with a gesture of disdain, stood for an instant looking steadfastly at the fort, and then sprang back into cover amid a shower of bullets which chipped away the twigs all round him.