Now this was more than some flesh and blood could stand. Spurring his horse, acting Quartermaster-General Nichol reined up alongside his beloved commander. "General," he said, saluting his leader, while the soldiers' faces expressed dumb approval, "forgive me, but I cannot forbear entreating you not to expose yourself. If we lose you, we lose all. I pray you, allow the troops to advance, led by their own officers." "Master Nichol," said Brock, turning in his saddle and returning the salute of the gallant Quartermaster, "I fully appreciate your kindly advice, but I feel that, in addition to their sense of loyalty and duty, there are many here following me from a feeling of personal regard, and I will never ask them to go where I do not lead." Before him spread the plain, broken here and there with _coulees_ and clumps of bush. A partly fenced roadway, with some scattered houses on the river bank, but no barbed-wire entanglements, impeded his movements. The introduction of such pleasant devices was left for a higher civilization! * * * * * The column was in motion. The steady onward tramp, tramp of this thin red line, raw recruit and grizzly veteran shoulder to shoulder, struck fear into the heart of the unfortunate Hull. The prospect, though his troops outnumbered the British three to one, was clearly war to the knife. Brock's meaning was apparent. Should he or should he not accept the Englishman's challenge? He could extract no comfort out of that solid scarlet front, bristling with naked steel, now fast approaching in battle array with even, ominous tread. * * * * * The siege-proof walls of the fort lay behind him. His irresolute heart grew faint, and in the flash of a flintlock in its pan, honour was sacrificed and fame cast to the winds. A brave army of martyrs, over 2,000 strong, was rightabout faced, and drinking the cup of humiliation, that only men of courage can drain to the bitter dregs, this army, eager to lock bayonets with the British, was actually ordered to retreat into the shelter of Fort Detroit! [Illustration: LIEUT.-COLONEL JOHN MACDONELL] CHAPTER XX. BROCK'S VICTORY. Reaching a ravine, Brock ordered up his artillery and prepared to assault. A shell from the British battery at Sandwich roared over the river and crashed through an embrasure of Fort Shelby, killing four American officers. The Savoyard river was reached and the outlying tan-yard crossed. Brock's troops, keyed up, with nerves tense under the strain of suspense, and every moment expecting a raking discharge of shot and shell from the enemy's big guns, heard with grim satisfaction the General's orders to "prepare for assault."