The lips of Washington were sealed. Not another word could he utter. But he knew full well that an hour of awful disaster was approaching, and one which he could do nothing whatever to avert. On the 9th of July the sun rose over the Alleghanies, which were left far away in the east, in cloudless splendor. The army, in joyous march, was approaching the banks of the Monongahela. It was one of those lovely days in which all nature seems happy. The flowers were in their richest bloom. The birds were swelling their throats with their sweetest songs. Balmy airs scarcely rippled the surface of the rivulet, along whose banks the troops were marching. All the sights and sounds of nature seemed to indicate that God intended this for a happy world; where he wished to see his children dwelling lovingly together, in the interchange of all deeds of fraternal kindness. It was such a day as Herbert has beautifully pictured in the words: “Sweet day, so still, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky.” The troops were defiling through a ravine which presented a natural path for their march. On either side the eminences were covered with the majestic forest and dense and almost impenetrable thickets of underbrush. The narrow passage was very circuitous. It was just the spot which any one familiar with Indian warfare would carefully explore, before allowing a long line of troops to become entangled in its labyrinthine trail. But there was no pause in the march; no scouts were sent along the eminences to search for an ambush; no precautions whatever were adopted to guard against surprise. The troops were now within a few miles of Fort Duquesne. The march had been triumphantly accomplished. Braddock was sanguine in the assurance that before the sun should set his banners would float, in triumph, over the fortress, and his army would be sheltered within its walls. He was exulting. Washington was appalled in view of the danger which still menaced them. Proudly Braddock hurried along, with his straggling band. Jokes and laughter resounded, as the burnished muskets and polished cannon of the British regulars brilliantly reflected the sunbeams. The hour of doom had come. Suddenly there was a thunder-burst of musketry, as from the cloudless skies. A storm of bullets, piercing the flesh, shattering the bones, swept the astounded ranks. It was like a supernatural attack from invisible spirits. Not a musket was revealed. Not an individual was to be seen. But from hundreds of stentorian throats the hideous war-whoop burst, leading those, who had never heard those shrill yells before, to apprehend that they were assailed, not by mortal foes, but by incarnate fiends.