“They say, sir,” said the sergeant, respectfully, as the men proceeded to their duty, “that it is not Captain de Haldimar after all, but an Ingian.”

“Not Captain de Haldimar! are ye all mad? and have the Indians, in reality, turned your brains with fear?”

What, however, was his own surprise, and that of Lieutenant Johnstone, when, on a closer examination of the corpse, which the men had now placed with its face uppermost, they discovered the bewildering fact that it was not, indeed, Captain de Haldimar who lay before them, but a stranger, dressed in the uniform of that officer.

There was no time to solve, or even to dwell on the singular mystery; for the Indians, though now retired, might be expected to rally and renew the attack.  Once more, therefore, the detachment moved forward; the officers dropping as before to the rear, to watch any movements of the enemy should he re-appear.  Nothing, however, occurred to interrupt their march; and in a few minutes the heavy clanking sound of the chains of the drawbridge, as it was again raised by its strong pullies, and the dull creaking sound of the rusty bolts and locks that secured the ponderous gate, announced the detachment was once more safely within the fort.

While the wounded men were being conveyed to the hospital, a group, comprising almost all the officers of the garrison, hastened to meet Captain Erskine and Lieutenant Johnstone.  Congratulations on the escape of the one, and compliments, rather than condolences, on the accident of the other, which the arm en echarpe denoted to be slight, were hastily and warmly proffered.  These felicitations were the genuine ebullitions of the hearts of men who really felt a pride, unmixed with jealousy, in the conduct of their fellows; and so cool and excellent had been the manner in which Captain Erskine had accomplished his object, that it had claimed the undivided admiration of all who had been spectators of the affair, and had, with the aid of their telescopes, been enabled to follow the minutest movements of the detachment.

“By heaven!” he at length replied, his chest swelling with gratified pride at the warm and generous approval of his companions, “this more than repays me for every risk.  Yet, to be sincere, the credit is not mine, but Wentworth’s.  But for you, my dear fellow,” grasping and shaking the hand of that officer, “we should have rendered but a Flemish account of ourselves.  How beautifully those guns covered our retreat! and the first mortar that sent the howling devils flying in air like so many Will-o’the-wisps, who placed that, Wentworth?”

“I did,” replied the officer, with a quickness that denoted a natural feeling of exultation; “but Bombardier Kitson’s was the most effective.  It was his shell that drove the Indians finally out of the bomb-proof, and left the coast clear for your retreat.”

“Then Kitson, and his gunners also, merit our best thanks,” pursued Captain Erskine, whose spirits, now that his detachment was in safety, were more than usually exhilarated by the exciting events of the last hour; “and what will be more acceptable, perhaps, they shall each have a glass of my best old Jamaica before they sleep,—­and such stuff is not to be met with every day in this wilderness of a country.  But, confound my stupid head! where are Charles de Haldimar and Sir Everard Valletort?”