“You are certain they were militia?”

“Yes, sir; quite sure.”

“Then, by Jove, I have it,” cried O’Flaherty.  “If they should turn out to be the Buffalo fencibles, we may get through this scrape better than I hoped for.”

“I believe you are right, sir; for I heard one of the men as I passed observe, ’what will they say in Buffalo when it’s over?’.”

“Send Mathers here, corporal; and do you order four rank and file, with side-arms to be in readiness immediately.”

“Mathers, you have heard the news,” said O’Flaherty, as the sergeant entered.  “Can the Fort hold out against such a force as Jackson reports?  You doubt; well, so do I; so let’s see what’s to be done.  Can you remember, was it not the Buffalo militia that were so tremendously thrashed by the Delawares last autumn?”

“Yes, sir, they chased them for two days and nights, and had they not reached the town of Buffalo, the Delawares would not have left a scalp in the regiment.”

“Can you recollect the chief’s name—­it was Carran—­something, eh?”

“Caudan-dacwagae.”

“Exactly.  Where is he supposed to be now?”

“Up in Detroit, sir, they say, but no one knows.  Those fellows are here to-day, and there to-morrow.”

“Well then, sergeant, here’s my plan.”  Saying these words, O’Flaherty proceeded to walk towards his quarters, accompanied by the sergeant, with whom he conversed for some time eagerly—­occasionally replying, as it appeared, to objections, and offering explanations as the other seemed to require them.  The colloquy lasted half an hour—­and although the veteran sergeant seemed difficult of conviction, it ended by his saying, as he left the room,

“Well, sir, as you say, it can only come to hard knocks at worst.  Here goes—­I’ll send off the scout party to make the fires and choose the men for the out picquets, for no time is to be lost.”

In about an hour’s time from the scene I have mentioned, a number of militia officers, of different grades, were seated round a bivouac fire, upon the bank of the Niagara river.  The conversation seemed of an angry nature, for the voices of the speakers were loud and irrascible, and their gestures evidenced a state of high excitement.

“I see,” said one, who seemed the superior of the party—­“I see well where this will end.  We shall have another Queenston affair, as we had last fall with the Delawares.”

“I only say,” replied another, “that if you wish our men to stand fire to-morrow morning, the less you remind them of the Delawares the better.  What is that noise?  Is not that a drum beating?”

The party at these words sprung to their legs, and stood in an attitude of listening for some seconds.

“Who goes there?” sung out a sentinel from his post; and then, after a moment’s delay, added—­“Pass flag of truce to Major Brown’s quarters.”

Scarcely were the words spoken, when three officers in scarlet, preceded by a drummer with a white flag, stood before the American party.