“The Indians would not obey them: they believe what I told them, that I have given you my medicine. If Morton is not saved this week, he dies.” “If our men beat the Yankees will they not rescue him?” “Yankees would shoot him before they would let him escape, and they will hang him if they retreat. They have let him live hoping to get me; when they know they cannot, they will kill him.” Maggie shuddered. “And what am I to do?” Hemlock answered: “The Indian has a good hand but a poor head. When they come and tell you they have found where Morton is kept, you will order them when and how to make the attack and into the messenger’s hand you will press this medicine, and tell him it will make success sure.” Here he took a pouch from his breast and selected a small package--something sewed up in a bit of bird’s skin. “I hope you will live to save your friend yourself,” said Maggie. Hemlock gloomily shook his head, and rising walked towards the door, which he opened and stepped out into the cheerless night. Maggie followed and looked out. She could see nothing: he was gone. That night she rested all the more comfortably, from knowing that within hail was a faithful band of Indians. CHAPTER XII. Two days later Hemlock was one of a group standing on the north bank of the river, where it broke into a short rapid, named from the settler whose shanty overlooked it, Morrison’s rapid. The group included representatives of the different corps that had been gathered together, with several settlers. They were watching, in the fading twilight, a thin line of moving red, emerging from the bush. It was a battalion of the Canadian Fencibles that had come from Kingston to reinforce deWatteville. The newcomers were soon among them, brawny Highlanders from Glengarry, French Canadian lumbermen, and a number of farmers from the English settlements in the east. They were greeted with the earnestness men in peril welcome help, and assistance was given in preparing such food as was available, while many sought rest after their exhausting journey in the outbuildings of Morrison and in the sheds that had been prepared for them. Their commander, Col. Macdonell, a thin, wiry man, with a fair complexion that gave him the name of Macdonell the Red, having seen his men disposed of, moved to the house. At the door Morrison, himself a Highlander, bade his guest welcome in the purest of Argyllshire Gaelic, and produced his bottle. After the glass had passed round, Macdonell said, “We have come far to have a tilt with the Yankees: will we be sure to meet them?” “That you will,” answered Morrison, “they are within four miles of you and will pay us a visit, maybe, the morn.” “Ha! That news does me more good than your dram. When there is fighting to be done, a Highlandman’s blood runs faster. Get us some supper ready, and while we wait I’ll find out what has been done. Is there none of the General’s staff here?”