“What do you hear, Tayoga?” whispered the scout.

“Nothing yet, Black Rifle, but the usual whispers of the wilderness, a little wind among the trees and a distant and uneasy deer walking.”

“Why should a deer be walking about at this time, and why should he be uneasy, Tayoga?  Any deer in his right mind ought to be taking his rest now in the forest.”

“That is true, Black Rifle, but this deer is worried and when a deer is worried there is a cause.  A deer is not like a man, full of fancies and creating danger when danger there is none.  He is troubled because there are strange presences in the woods, presences that he dreads.”

“Maybe he scents us.”

“No, the wind does not blow from us toward him.  Do not move!  Do not stir in the least, Black Rifle!  I think I catch another sound, almost as light as that made by a leaf when it falls!  Ah, Manitou is good to me!  He makes me hear to-night better than I ever heard before, because it is his purpose, I know not why, to make me do so!  There comes the little sound again and it is real!  It was a footstep far away, and then another and another and now many!  It is the tread of marching men and they are white men!”

“How do you know they are white men, Tayoga?”

“Mingled with the sound of their footsteps is a little clank made by the hilts of swords and the butts of pistols striking against the metal on their belts.  There is a slight creaking of leather, too, which could not possibly come from a band of warriors.  I hear the echo of a voice!  I think it is a command, a short, sharp word or two such as white officers give.  The sounds of the footsteps merge now, Black Rifle, because the men are marching to the same step.  I think there must be at least fifty of them.  They are sure to be French, because we are certain our troops are not yet in this region, and because only the French are so active that they make these swift marches at night.”

“Unfortunately that’s so, Tayoga.  Will they pass near us?”

“Very near us, but I do not think they will see us, as the fog is so thick.”

“Should we wake the others and move?”

“No, at least not yet.  Now they are going very slowly.  It is not because they do not know the way, but because the fog troubles them.  It is St. Luc who leads them.”

“I don’t see how your ear can tell you that, Tayoga.”

“It is not my ear, it is my mind that tells me, Black Rifle.  The French would not go through the forest to-night, unless they had warriors with them as guides, flankers and skirmishers.  Only St. Luc could make them come, because we know that even the French have great trouble in inducing them to enter big battles.  They like better ambush and foray.  De Courcelles could not make them march on this journey nor could Jumonville.  My reason tells me it could be only St. Luc.  It must be!”

“Yes, I’m sure now it’s St. Luc up to some trick that we ought to meet.”