“What is it, then?  Are they coming on?” he asked.

“They are up to some devilry,” said Du Lhut, peering out at the corner of the embrasure.  “They are gathering thickly at the east fringe, and yet the firing comes from the south.  It is not the Indian way to attack across the open, and yet if they think help is coming from the fort they might venture it.”

“The wood in front of us is alive with them,” said Amos.  “They are as busy as beavers among the underwood.”

“Perhaps they are going to attack from this side, and cover the attack by a fire from the flank.”

“That is what I think,” cried the seigneur.  “Bring the spare guns up here and all the men except five for each side.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a shrill yell burst from the wood, and in an instant a cloud of warriors dashed out and charged across the open, howling, springing, and waving their guns or tomahawks in the air.  With their painted faces, smeared and striped with every vivid colour, their streaming scalp-locks, their waving arms, their open mouths, and their writhings and contortions, no more fiendish crew ever burst into a sleeper’s nightmare.  Some of those in front bore canoes between them, and as they reached the stockade they planted them against it and swarmed up them as if they had been scaling-ladders.  Others fired through the embrasures and loop-holes, the muzzles of their muskets touching those of the defenders, while others again sprang unaided on to the tops of the palisades and jumped fearlessly down upon the inner side.  The Canadians, however, made such a resistance as might be expected from men who knew that no mercy awaited them.  They fired whilst they had time to load, and then, clubbing their muskets, they smashed furiously at every red head which showed above the rails.  The din within the stockade was infernal, the shouts and cries of the French, the whooping of the savages, and the terrified screaming of the frightened women blending into one dreadful uproar, above which could be heard the high shrill voice of the old seigneur imploring his censitaires to stand fast.  With his rapier in his hand, his hat lost, his wig awry, and his dignity all thrown to the winds, the old nobleman showed them that day how a soldier of Rocroy could carry himself, and with Du Lhut, Amos, De Catinat and Ephraim Savage, was ever in the forefront of the defence.  So desperately did they fight, the sword and musket-butt outreaching the tomahawk, that though at one time fifty Iroquois were over the palisades, they had slain or driven back nearly all of them when a fresh wave burst suddenly over the south face which had been stripped of its defenders.  Du Lhut saw in an instant that the enclosure was lost and that only one thing could save the house.