They moved on for a quarter of a mile through a country, as it seems, comparatively open; when again the war-cry pealed in front, and three hundred savages came bounding to the assault.  Their whoops were echoed from the rear.  It was the party whom Arlac had just repulsed, who, leaping and showering their arrows, were rushing on with a ferocity restrained only by their lack of courage.  There was no panic.  The men threw down their corn-bags, and took to their weapons.  They blew their matches, and, under two excellent officers, stood well to their work.  The Indians, on their part, showed a good discipline, after their fashion, and were perfectly under the control of their chiefs.  With cries that imitated the yell of owls, the scream of cougars, and the howl of wolves, they ran up in successive bands, let fly their arrows, and instantly fell back, giving place to others.  At the sight of the levelled arquebuse, they dropped flat on the earth.  Whenever, sword in hand, the French charged upon them, they fled like foxes through the woods; and whenever the march was resumed, the arrows were showering again upon the flanks and rear of the retiring band.  The soldiers coolly picked them up and broke them as they fell.  Thus, beset with swarming savages, the handful of Frenchmen pushed their march till nightfall, fighting as they went.

The Indians gradually drew off, and the forest was silent again.  Two of the French had been killed and twenty-two wounded, several so severely that they were supported to the boats with the utmost difficulty.  Of the corn, two bags only had been brought off.

Famine and desperation now reigned at Fort Caroline.  The Indians had killed two of the carpenters; hence long delay in the finishing of the new ship.  They would not wait, but resolved to put to sea in the Breton and the brigantine.  The problem was to find food for the voyage; for now, in their extremity, they roasted and ate snakes, a delicacy in which the neighborhood abounded.

On the third of August, Laudonniere, perturbed and oppressed, was walking on the hill, when, looking seaward, he saw a sight that shot a thrill through his exhausted frame.  A great ship was standing towards the river’s mouth.  Then another came in sight, and another, and another.  He called the tidings to the fort below.  Then languid forms rose and danced for joy, and voices, shrill with weakness, joined in wild laughter and acclamation.

A doubt soon mingled with their joy.  Who were the strangers?  Were they the succors so long hoped in vain? or were they Spaniards bringing steel and fire?  They were neither.  The foremost was a stately ship, of seven hundred tons, a mighty burden at that day.  She was named the Jesus; and with her were three smaller vessels, the Solomon, the Tiger, and the Swallow.  Their commander was “a right worshipful and valiant knight,”—­for so the record styles him,—­a pious man and a prudent, to judge him by the orders he gave his crew, when, ten months before, he sailed out of Plymouth:—­“Serve God daily, love one another, preserve your victuals, beware of fire, and keepe good companie.”  Nor were the crew unworthy the graces of their chief; for the devout chronicler of the voyage ascribes their deliverance from the perils of the seas to “the Almightie God, who never suffereth his Elect to perish.”