His eyes suddenly caught a gleam on the crest of Defiance.  A bit of red flashed among the trees.  He thought it was the uniform of a British soldier, and his heart beat hard.  The army was surely advancing, the attack would be made, and the victory would be won that day, not on the morrow nor next week, but before the sun set.

The blood pounded in his temples.  He looked at the French.  They, too, had seen the scarlet gleam on Defiance and they were watching.  Montcalm and St. Luc began to talk together earnestly.  De Levis and Bourlamaque walked back and forth among their troops, but their gaze was upon the crest.  The men lay down ax and spade for the time, and reached for their arms.  Robert saw the sunlight glittering on musket and bayonet, and once more he thrilled at the thought of the great drama on which the curtain was now rising.

Another scarlet patch appeared on the crest and then more.  He knew that the scouts and skirmishers were there, doubtless in strong force.  It was likely that the rangers, who would be in forest green, were more numerous than the English, and the attack could not now be far away.  A sharp crack, a puff of white smoke on the hill, and the first shot of Ticonderoga was fired.  Then came a volley, but the French made no reply.  None of the bullets had reached them.  Robert did not know it then, but the gleam came from the red blankets of Iroquois Indians, the allies of the English, and not from English uniforms.  They kept up a vigorous but harmless fire for a short while, and then drew off.

Silence descended once more on the forest, and Robert was puzzled.  It could not be possible that this was to be the only attack.  The smoke of the rifles was already drifting away from the crest, gone like summer vapor.  The French were returning to their work with ax and spade.  The forest covered and enclosed everything.  No sound came from it.  Montcalm and St. Luc, walking up and down, began to talk together again.  They looked no longer toward the crest of Defiance, but watched the southern wilderness.

The work with the ax increased.  Montcalm had no mind to lose the precious hours.  More trees fell fast, and they were added to the formidable works.  The sun grew hotter and poured down sheaves of fiery rays, but the toilers disregarded it, swinging the axes with muscles that took no note of weariness.  Robert thought the morning would last forever.  An hour before noon De Galissonniere was passing, and, noticing him sitting on a low mound, he said: 

“I did not know what had become of you, Mr. Lennox, but I see that you, like ourselves, await the battle.”

“So I do,” said Robert as lightly as he could, “but it seems to me that it’s somewhat delayed.”

“Not our fault, I assure you.  Perhaps you didn’t think so earlier, but you see we’re willing to fight, no matter how great the odds.”

“I admit it.  The Marquis de Montcalm has his courage—­perhaps too much.”