“We marched straight to Chambly—such were our orders. The object of M. de Valrenne was to permit those devils of English to pass, and then, by placing himself in their rear, to cut them off from their canoes. Our scouts—and there are none better than Misti, Tshinespek and Mushawana,—soon discovered the advance of the enemy, and then we marched six or seven miles towards La Prairie, on the path by which Schuyler was retreating. The sun stood high; it was nine o’clock when our scouts met those of the foe, and then—_Dianthe!_—the woods resounded with the shrill yells of the Indians as their war-whoops gave the alarm. You all know how that part of the country is buried in forests. We take possession of a ridge of ground that crosses the way of those English wolves. Two enormous trees thrown down by the storm have fallen along the crest of this rising ground, and behind these we crouch in a triple row, well hidden by bushes and thick standing stumps, like wolves ready to spring upon their prey. Believe me, Mesdames and Messieurs, I have witnessed much of forest warfare, yet never before have I seen so hot a conflict. The English charged like devils—(to give them their due they do not lack courage)—and were sent reeling back by a close and deadly volley. Like hail the balls flew—three times were we mingled together, scorching each other’s shirts by the flash of our guns. With still greater fury our enemies repeated the attack, and dislodged us from our place of ambush. It was then the veritable struggle commenced. Figure to yourself that they determined to break through our lines, and our commandant desired, above all else, to drive them back within the reach of our people at La Prairie. Our muskets thirsted to kill. There, amidst that storm of hell-fire, stood M. de Valrenne, giving his orders, calm and smiling as at a ball. Forty dead they left behind them, those English, yet they managed to cut their way through and drive us from the path.” To the anxious listeners the prospect appeared to grow darker and more appalling. There had been a sharp engagement, many lives apparently had been lost, and who could divine whose heart had been smitten, whose home rendered desolate? “M. le Lieutenant Dumerque?” asked a timorous voice. “Dead; shot at my side,” responded le Canotier, with the sharp brevity of excitement. “I see a little officer with hair as red as his coat, fighting like a Turk. I send him a sugar plum—_v’là!_—his legs in the air, but not before mon Lieutenant had fallen, pierced by a shot from his hand.” There was a faint stifled cry. A pale young girl, who had been listening eagerly, fell on the ground in a nerveless heap; an elderly woman, with face set in lines of stony composure, bent anxiously over her; then Dollier de Casson, raising the slight form in his strong arms, bore her away to her home.