On leaving Morrison’s, Hemlock hurried to the front, followed by his braves. As he reached each successive line of defence he paused briefly to scan it, but when he came to that which had been entrusted to the Indians, and which was within sight of the front, he halted to fraternize with his brethren and share their fare, for it was now noon. The urgent requests of the chiefs, that he should stay with them and aid in the threatened conflict, he declined, saying he wanted to be with the first line, and his dusky comrades afterwards recalled that he parted with more than usual ceremony and that when he and his small band gained the eminence on the other side of the ravine, he looked back and waved his hand in farewell. A tramp of a few minutes brought him to the advance line, where he found men still busy felling and rolling trees to strengthen the abattis. Inquiring for the officer in command he came upon him, a short, broad-shouldered man, engaged in swearing at one of his men for neglect of duty. On seeing the Indians he turned, and with hearty gesture grasped Hemlock’s extended hand. “Ha, bon camarado, have you come to help?” “Will there be a fight?” asked Hemlock. “Yes, yes; stand on this stump and you can see for yourself.” With cautious movement Hemlock scanned the scene. In front of the abattis there was a narrow clearing that skirted the river bank as far as the view extended. On the road and adjoining fields were masses of American troops, with the smoke rising from the fires at which they were cooking dinner. “You see, Hemlock,” said Colonel deSalaberry, “they may make an attack any minute. Those mounted officers looking at us from the road are the General and his staff.” Hemlock gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Where will we stand?” he asked.