The sun hung in the sky, on the fatal August morning, a burnished copper ball. Scarcely a breath heaved the dark surface of the lake, and no laughter of light danced in the sparkle of a crest. A pallor lay on the sandy levels and ridges of the beach similar to the upturned face of some one dead. Nature had set the stage for the tragedy of man. The little column left the fort at nine o'clock, a small company of friendly Indians in the van, then the caravan of transport wagons, loaded with rations and with women, children, and sick soldiers, then a few armed settlers, then a meagre uniformed platoon of less than two-score fighting-men. A double column of Pottawattomies formed on either side. As they began to move, the soldiers presented arms to the flag fluttering down from its staff. They might have spoken the words of the gladiators when they trooped into the arena in olden time, "_Ave, Cæsar! morituri te salutamus_" (Hail, Cæsar! we, the death-doomed, salute you). It is even a historical fact that the band played the Dead March when that funeral procession tramped out on the road of destiny between walls of living bronze. Harold, armed with a double-barrelled rifle, had hidden behind a big sand knoll near the gate. When John Kinzie helped his family into their frail barks of safety he had marked the absence of the lad, but there was no time to think further or search, for there was much business afoot. Harold saw his guardian now expostulating with Indian chiefs, now urging some special course on Captain Heald, who marched with his detachment, now encouraging the trembling women in the wagons. And so the column wended its slow course over the burning sand away from the fort.