The late panic had scarcely subsided, when it was succeeded by another yet more terrible. In the spring of 1660, the inhabitants of the town were one day dispersed through the adjoining fields, peacefully engaged in agricultural pursuits, when suddenly the thrilling news arrived that twelve hundred Iroquois had assembled in the neighbourhood of Montreal, with the intention of utterly annihilating the colony. Their plan, it was said, was to begin with the capital, as the residence of the Governor, for they argued that the head once destroyed, the members would soon follow. It would be vain to attempt a description of the universal consternation occasioned by this intelligence. The first impulse of the trembling people was to try to propitiate heaven by public prayer; accordingly, the Blessed Sacrament was exposed, and devotions in honour of the Blessed Virgin were commenced. The Bishop, alarmed for the safety of the Nuns, removed the two communities from their own homes to lodgings near the Jesuits. The remaining inhabitants either fortified their dwellings or abandoned them for others more securely located. Meantime the monastery was placed in a state of siege; redoubts were raised; the windows walled half-way, and well supplied with loop-holes. Every aperture was carefully closed, and no entrance to the monastery left open except one narrow door, through which only a single person could pass at a time. Twenty-four men were placed on guard in the house, and, more formidable to the enemy than any soldiers, twelve enormous dogs were stationed on the outside. Woe to the Iroquois who should glide serpent- like through the tall grass, or lie in ambush in the shade of the brushwood! The sagacious animals would quickly detect his place of concealment, fly at him in a bound, and tear him to pieces without ceremony, a fact so well known to the hostile savages, that they feared the dogs of the French more than their warriors or their cannon.