What had happened to that ill-fated fort Fritz and Roche knew
little as yet. They had heard the tremendous firing which had
followed whilst they remained in hiding during the day the dawn of
which had seen the last desperate sortie. They had at night seen
flames which spoke of Indian campfires all round the place, and
from the complete cessation of firing after two they concluded that
terms of surrender had been made. They had meant to wander deeper
and deeper into the forest, out of reach of possible peril from
prowling Indians; but they had been unable to tear themselves away
without learning more of the fate of the hapless fort and its
garrison.
At daybreak--or rather with the, first grey of dawn--they had
crept through the brushwood as stealthily as Indians themselves,
only to be made aware shortly that something horrible and terrible
was going on. Yells and war whoops and the screech of Indian voices
rose and clamoured through the silence of the forest, mingled with
the shrieks of victims brutally massacred, and the shouts and
entreaties of the French officers, who ran hither and thither
seeking to restrain the brutal and savage treachery of their
unworthy allies.
Roche had lost his head, and would have rushed madly upon the scene
of bloodshed and confusion; and Fritz must needs have followed, for
he was not one to let a comrade go to his death alone: but before
they had proceeded far, they met their comrade Pringle dashing
through the forest, covered with wounds, and pursued by half a
dozen screeching Indians, and in a moment they had sprung to his
rescue.
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