“I suppose of course, Lennox, that you can shut your eyes and see him once more without any trouble.”

“In all truth and certainty I can, Will.  He is lying on a stone shelf with a stone ledge above him.  His blanket takes away the hardness of the stone that supports him.  He sees boughs and sticks whirled past by the storm, but none of them touches him.  He hears the wind whistling and screaming at a pitch so fierce that it would terrify one unused to the forest, but it is only a song in the ears of Tayoga.  It soothes him, it lulls him, and knowing that he can’t use the period of the storm for traveling, he uses it for sleep, thus enabling him to take less later on when the storm has ceased.  So, after all, he loses nothing so far as his journey is concerned.  Now his lids droop, his eyes close, and he slumbers while the storm thunders past, unable to touch him.”

“You do have the gift, Lennox.  I believe that sometimes your words are music in your own ears, and inspire you to greater efforts.  When the war is over you must surely become a public man—­one who is often called upon to address the people.”

“We’ll fight the war first,” laughed Robert.

The storm in its rise, its zenith and its decline lasted several hours, and, when it was over, the forest looked like a wreck, but Robert knew that nature would soon restore everything.  The foliage of next spring would cover up the ruin and new growth would take the place of the old and broken.  The wilderness, forever restoring what was lost, always took care of itself.

A day or two of fine, clear winter weather, not too cold, followed, and Willet went forth to scout.  He was gone until the next morning and when he returned his face was very grave.

“There are Indians in the forest,” he said, “not friendly warriors of the Hodenosaunee, but those allied with the enemy.  I think a formidable Ojibway band under Tandakora is there, and also other Indians from the region of the Great Lakes.  They may have started against us some time back, but were probably halted by the bad weather.  They’re in different bodies now, scattered perhaps for hunting, but they’ll reunite before long.”

“Did you see signs of any white men, Dave?” asked Robert.

“Yes, French officers and some soldiers are with ’em, but I don’t think St. Luc is in the number.  More likely it’s De Courcelles and Jumonville, whom we have such good cause to remember.”

“I hope so, Dave, I’d rather fight against those two than against St. Luc.”

“So would I, and for several reasons.  St. Luc is a better leader than they are.  They’re able, but he’s the best of all the French.”

That afternoon two men who ventured a short distance from Fort Refuge were shot at, and one was wounded slightly, but both were able to regain the little fortress.  Willet slipped out again, and reported the forest swarming with Indians, although there was yet no indication of a preconcerted attack.  Still, it was well for the garrison to keep close and take every precaution.