Among the prisoners was the Rev. Mr. Williams. His wife, unable to keep up with the party, was killed on the second day by her captor. Two of his children had been killed during the sack. One of his daughters, Eunice, while in captivity was converted to the Catholic religion, and married with an Indian. She entirely adopted Indian habits, and was pleased with her life. Afterwards she occasionally visited her friends in New England, but no persuasion would induce her to remain there. A chronicler states, with a comical mixture of surprise and indignation, “She uniformly persisted in wearing her blankets and counting her beads.” One of her descendants was a highly respected clergyman, the Rev. Eleazer Williams, who died a few years since, and who during life became the subject of controversy. Mr. Hansen wrote an article, and finally a book, “The Lost Prince,” to prove that Mr. Williams was really the missing Dauphin, Louis the Sixteenth. A look at the clergyman’s portrait shows the half-breed features quite distinctly, though the claim was plausibly put, and for a time had its ardent supporters. _THE SACK OF DEERFIELD._ Of the onset fear-inspiring, and the firing and the pillage Of our village, when De Rouville with his forces on us fell, When, ere dawning of the morning, with no death-portending warning, With no token shown or spoken, came the foemen, hear me tell. High against the palisadoes, on the meadows, banks, and hill-sides, At the rill-sides, over fences, lay the lingering winter snow; And so high by tempest rifted, at our pickets it was drifted, That its frozen crust was chosen as a bridge to bear the foe. We had set at night a sentry, lest an entry, while the sombre Heavy slumber was upon us, by the Frenchman should be made; But the faithless knave we posted, though of wakefulness he boasted, ’Stead of keeping watch was sleeping, and his solemn trust betrayed. Than our slumber none profounder; never sounder fell on sleeper, Never deeper sleep its shadow cast on dull and listless frames; But it fled before the crashing of the portals, and the flashing, And the soaring, and the roaring, and the crackling of the flames. Fell the shining hatchets quickly ’mid the thickly crowded women, Growing dim in crimson currents from the pulses of the brain; Rained the balls from firelocks deadly, till the melted snow ran redly With the glowing torrent flowing from the bodies of the slain. I, from pleasant dreams awaking at the breaking of my casement, With amazement saw the foemen quickly enter where I lay; Heard my wife and children’s screaming, as the hatchets woke their dreaming, Heard their groaning and their moaning as their spirits passed away.