It was the morning of the 12th of June, 1676. Day had hardly dawned. The bright star of morning had not yet melted away; but the dark clouds that had obscured the sky broke in pieces, and rolled away in huge masses far into the distance, disclosing the bright full moon—her radiance not yet dimmed by the presence of the king of brightness. Under cover of the night a powerful body of Indians had advanced near to the town of Hadley, and at the southern extremity of the street on which it was—and still is—principally built, had proceeded to dispose among the thick trees and underwood, a strong band of faithful warriors as an ambuscade. There they lay, still and motionless as the trees that concealed them. There was many a stout heart beating eagerly for the fray that would soon cease to beat for ever. Many a strong arm firmly grasped the rifle or the tomahawk, soon itself to be in the grasp of an all-powerful foe. Many a fiery eye rolled round in its socket which was soon to be covered with the film of death. How calmly and soundly slept the inhabitants of that village, even whilst the chafed savage was prowling for his prey. All, unsuspecting, their slumbers were deep and unbroken, while the hungry lions about them were awaiting, impatiently, the moment of attack. How often while we sleep are our destinies decided for us! Wealth—fame—happiness—the rewards of toil—the requiters of virtue—good and evil—little circumstances and great—are all hovering above and about us, while we are unconscious of their presence. Life and death may hang upon a single hair, while we cannot raise a hand or bend a thought to avert or secure either. The eastern sky had just begun to be tinged with red, and a few straggling rays of the sun, still far below the horizon, were dancing in fairy shapes towards the zenith, when the work of death and of cruelty began. Stealthily and silently the savages crept on. Yet let us not call them _savages_: they were but redressing their wrongs—but avenging the life blood of their race; and though blood was that morning poured out like water; and though the tomahawk and scalping knife were the instruments of death, and the sleeping and the helpless were the victims;—yet their destroyers were but doing with their enemies as they did with each other: they were not doing violence to their own natures: they were even exercising far more _humanity_ than those who, with the Gospel of Peace in their hand, and the light of civilization around them, had sapped the very foundations of the Red Man’s race. Swiftly the work went on. A stifled groan—a scream of anguish occasionally broke the stillness of the hour. Save that, all was wrapped in deep, dread, ominous silence. At length, by accident, a rifle was discharged. On that little circumstance hung the life of hundreds. The sound echoes through the long street—a window is raised—a door is opened—the alarm is given—and armed men pour forth, and prepare to resist the foe.