Richard Rogers had been sent scouting by his brother, and came in with news.

“There will be marching on the morrow.  Some soldiers will leave the fort for the nearest camp; I could not gather how many, but there will be some marching through the forest.  If we post ourselves near to the road by which they will pass, we may do some havoc ere they know our whereabouts.”

This was work entirely to the liking of the Rangers.  Before dawn they were posted in their ambush, and allowed themselves a few hours of repose, but lighted no fire.  They must not draw attention to themselves.

They were awake and astir with the first light of the tardy dawn, eagerly listening whilst they looked to the priming of their arms, and exchanged whispered prognostications.

Then came the expected sound—­the tramp, tramp, tramp of a number of men on the march.

“Hist!” whispered Rogers, “lie low, and reserve your fire.  These sound too many for us.”

The men kept watch, and saw the soldiers file by.  There were close upon two hundred.  It would have been madness to attack them, and the Rangers looked at one another in disappointment.

“Cheer up! there may be more to come,” suggested Rogers; and before another hour had passed, their listening ears were rewarded by the sound of a bugle call, and in a few minutes more the trampling of feet was heard once again, and this time the sound was less and more irregular.

“Some stragglers kept behind for something, seeking to catch up the main body,” spoke Rogers in a whisper.  “Be ready, men; mark each his foe, and then out upon them, and take prisoners if you can.”

The taking of prisoners was most important.  It was from them that each side learned what was being done by the various commanders.  A prisoner was valuable booty to return with to the fort.  Rogers seldom went forth upon any important expedition without returning with one or more.

The men swung by carelessly, laughing and talking.  They had such faith in their Indian scouts that they never thought of an ambushed foe.

The ping of the rifles in their rear caused a strange panic amongst them.  They faced round to see the redoubtable Rogers spring out at the head of a compact body of men.

But the strangest thing in that strange attack was a wild, unearthly yell which suddenly broke from one of the Rangers.

It was like nothing human; it was like the fierce roar of some terrible wild beast.  Even Rogers himself was startled for the moment, and looked back to see from whence it had come.

At that moment Charles Angell dashed forward in a frantic manner.  He had flung his gun from him; his eyeballs were fixed and staring; there was foam upon his lips; his hair was streaming in the wind.  He bore an aspect so strange and fearful that the French uttered yells of terror, and fled helter-skelter from the onslaught.