“Now!” cried Pierre Noir, discharging his piece into the crowded ranks below him; and shot after shot followed his own.  The packed brown mass gave back and resolved itself into scattered units, who broke and ran for the nearest cover.

“They will not come on again until dark,” said Pierre Noir, calmly leaning his piece against the wall.  “Therefore I may attend to certain little matters.”

He passed out into the entry-way, where lay the bodies of three Iroquois, abandoned, under the close and deadly fire, by their companions where they had fallen.  When Pierre Noir returned and calmly propped up again the door of slabs which he had removed, he carried in his hand three tufts of long black hair, from which dripped heavy gouts of blood.

“Good God, man!” said Pembroke.  “You must not be savage as these Indians!”

“Speak for yourself, Monsieur Anglais,” replied Pierre, stoutly.  “You need not save these head pieces if you do not care for them.  For myself, ’tis part of the trade.”

“Assuredly,” broke in Jean Breboeuf.  “We keep these trinkets, we voyageurs of the French.  Make no doubt that Jean Breboeuf will take back with him full tale of the Indians he has killed.  Presently I go out.  Zip! goes my knife, and off comes the topknot of Monsieur Indian, him I killed but now as he ran.  Then I shall dry the scalp here by the fire, and mount it on a bit of willow, and take it back for a present to my sweetheart, Susanne Duchene, on the seignieury at home.”

“Bravo, Jean!” cried out the old Indian fighter, Pierre Noir, the old baresark rage of the fighting man now rising hot in his blood.  “And look!  Here come more chances for our little ornaments.”

Pierre Noir for once had been mistaken and underestimated the courage of the warriors of the Onondagos.  Lashing themselves to fury at the thought of their losses, they came on again, now banding and charging in the open close up to the walls of the palisade.  Again the little party of whites maintained a steady fire, and again the Iroquois, baffled and enraged, fell back into the wood, whence they poured volley after volley rattling against the walls of the sturdy fortress.

“I am sorry, sir,” said Sergeant Gray to Pembroke, “but ’tis all up with me.”  The poor fellow staggered against the wall, and in a few moments all was indeed over with him.  A chance shot had pierced his chest.

“Peste!  If this keeps up,” said Pierre Noir, “there will not be many of us left by morning.  I never saw them fight so well.  ’Tis a good watch we’ll need this night.”