Now all girted up with wampum, With scalping-knife and spear, With tomahawk, bow and arrows, The foe they do not fear. And each chief hath his allotment Of braves to do his will; And well they know how to attack With cunning and with skill. Directed all by Mitwaos, Whose plans are now complete, Each one his post of duty knows, And how the foe to meet. Then at the lonesome midnight hour, When the world ’s wrapped in sleep, The Ojibways form for battle, And on the foeman creep. Proud Mitwaos in the centre, The whole at his command; Leaping Panther with the right wing, Who like a rock will stand; And Lone Wolf with the left wing, The red men love him well, And many an act of daring His nation of him tell. The signal, an owl hoot, given, And stealthily through the gloom They move forward in position To victory or their doom. Aye, noiselessly gliding onward Through darkness dense and still, By the signal of the hooting owl Or the cry of whippoorwill. CHAPTER V. Thus gain they the dark hillocks By the Carrying Place, And like phantoms take position The waiting foe to face. Aye, waiting were the Voyageurs, In silence, but prepared; Not as Mitwaos expected, To be surprised and snared. De Orville became suspicious Of the distant, sullen mood Of the Ojibways, and took counsel And the usual course pursued; Facing the impending danger, Placed sentries on the rounds, Alert to the slightest movement, Awake to the faintest sounds. The fires were allowed to smoulder, And, fearing no alarms, Their appointments in good order, In ranks they lay on their arms. But Le Jeune, whose tour of duty Was at the midnight drear, Was disturbed by sounds peculiar That fell weirdly on the ear. The hoot of the owl repeated, The cry of whippoorwill, Nearer, and ever nearer, Through darkness dense and still. Then swiftly rousing de Orville, They learn the foe is nigh, And quietly rouse the voyageurs, Prepared to win or die. So coolly they wait the onset, And just at the dawn’s pale light Comes a flight of hissing arrows, And on the fading night Bursts a yell all fierce and hideous, As, opening the affray, By a wild rush to overwhelm They hope to win the day. But bursts the crash of arquebuse And roar of musketoon, And the fatal stroke of halberd, And swords that deal death’s doom. And the Ojibways reel backward With many a brave laid low, Close beside the silver waters, With their gentle ebb and flow.