A number of dry logs, crossed and pinned together by wooden wedges, lay upon the gravel spit, piled with dry grass and resinous boughs interlaced. Beside were lengths of pine to act as rollers for launching. The mass of inflammable material rose high. Torches were pressed between two stones beside the logs. "'Tis but the raft made to give signal to the Iroquois tribes," explained the lieutenant. "To the water with it," cried a voice. "Peace, fool. The French have sentries posted." "Fire it," snorted Von Donck. "Let not so much good work be spent in vain. Will float it upon the French man-o'-war for a parting message." Eager hands set in place the rollers, and soon the unwieldy mass grumbled riverwards. It nosed into the water and settled with a splash, riding deep because the logs had weight. Flint and steel struck, a shower of sparks rained upon the catch-fire, the torches were ignited. At a word the grass flared, and the raft, released, struck upon a rock, turned slowly, and raced down stream, a red and yellow sheet of fire under a whirling canopy of smoke, straight for the lantern which marked the presence of the man-of-war. "To the boats!" whispered Van Vuren. A cry was raised above, and soon the answering voices resembled a chorus of daws frightened round a dark steeple by the shadow of a bird of prey. While the Dutch were floundering in mid-stream a brass gun thundered. The column of fire swept on, illuminating the seamed wall, and throwing into black contrast the trees on the opposite shore. As the laughing Dutchmen reached land a terrific din from the hemlock forest shocked the night, and this wild revelry became each moment more terrible, until the wind seemed to cease to breathe. The raft was opposite the landing-stage, burning rapidly down to the water, casting out flakes of fire and wisps of blazing grass. Lights flashed confusedly upon the heights, and the tramp of armed men carried solemnly across the river. "The Iroquois are coming out!" cried Van Vuren. "Let us wait like vultures for the pickings," muttered the lieutenant at his side. "Vultures!" shrieked a malignant voice. "A good word, traitors." The men swung round and stared into the gloom. Upon a point of rock they saw Gaudriole, squatting like a toad, his features half lit by the glow of his pipe. "The plain of Tophet lies ahead," he snarled at them. "Others may play at fire as well as ye." He sprang up and danced furiously upon the rock. "Slay me that hunchback," shouted Van Vuren in a rage. His men ran at the rock. Gaudriole spat at them like a cat and vanished among the scrub. A wave of smoke fanned over the ridge. A deep glow, waving up and down like a red rag, grew along the southern sky, advancing storm-like, deepening in colour. The bush had been fired. CHAPTER XX. SACRAMENTAL.