Night is now coming on apace and the great camp fires of the army shed a cheerful glow on men and horses, arms and accouterments. Harrison is watchful. While neither he nor his officers expect a night attack, still he bears in mind that he is in the heart of the Indian country and only a mile and a quarter from the Prophet's village. A council of the officers is held and all placed in readiness for instant action. The camp, in form, is an irregular parallelogram, and troops may be rushed to at once reinforce any point assailed. The troops are formed in single rank and maneuver easily--extension of the lines is readily accomplished. The order of encampment is the order of battle. Every man must sleep opposite his post. In case of attack the soldiers are to arise, step to the rear of the fires, and instantly form in line. The line thus formed is to hold its ground until further relieved. The dragoons are to parade dismounted, with their pistols in their belts, and to act as a corps de reserve. The whole camp is surrounded by two captains' guards, each consisting of four non-commissioned officers and forty-two men, and two subalterns' guards, of twenty non-commissioned officers and privates. The regulars retire with accouterments on, and their arms by their sides. The tired militia, having no tents, sleep with their arms under them to keep them dry. Captain Cook, of the Fourth Regiment records that he slept with his boots and great coat on, and with his trusty rifle clasped in his arms. The infantry bear cartridges each loaded with twelve buckshot. These are intended for a rain of death. In the meantime, the fearful Prophet is filled with doubt. Now that the hour of destiny is at hand, his heart fails him. He counsels caution and a postponement of the fight. He urges that a treaty be entered into; a compliance made with the demands of the Governor, and that the Potawatomi murderers be surrendered up. The army must be thrown off its guard and a treacherous attack made on its return home. But the young men and warriors think otherwise. Has not the Prophet told them that the white man's bullets are harmless, and that his powder will turn to sand? Why hesitate? The army is now asleep and will never awake. Let the Magic Bowl be produced, the sacred torch and the "Medean fire." Let there be death to all! At a quarter past four o'clock in the morning the Governor arises to pull on his boots. The moon is now obscured, and a drizzly rain is falling. The camp fires are still burning, but beyond the lines of sleeping men, all is darkness and gloom. The sentinels out there in the night are listening to strange sounds. Through the tall grass of the swamp lands terrible forms are creeping, like snakes on their bellies, towards the camp. The painted and feather-bedecked warriors of the Prophet are surrounding the army.