reports of
their faithlessness.

One stormy evening the chief entered the cabin of a Frenchman whom he
had known for many years. With only a nod for his host he sat down
before the dying fire. He sat there wrapt in his blanket for a long time
without a word. At last he faced the Frenchman and said: "Old friend, I
hear that the English have offered to give you a bushel of silver if you
will take them my scalp."

"It is false," cried the Frenchman in alarm. "I would not injure my
friend for many bushels of silver."

"Pontiac has no fear. Pontiac trusts his brother," the Indian replied,
and stretching himself upon a bench he was soon sound asleep. The
Frenchman could not be false to such faith and the chief slept unharmed.

While successfully keeping together his warriors and strengthening the
bond of friendship between the French and the Indians, Pontiac was
carrying on the war against the English with vigor. His camp near
Detroit was the center of action. From it Pontiac directed the war and
kept constant watch over the garrison. He prevented the besieged from
leaving their walls; he sent out parties to waylay the supplies the
British were expecting from the East; he planned and managed expeditions
against other forts held by the British.

IX. THE SIEGE OF DETROIT

The English at Detroit soon became accustomed to the discomforts and
alarms of the siege. The women no longer trembled when the Indian war
whoop sounded. The men no longer ran to the walls at the popping of
muskets. The smell of gunpowder, the whiz of bullets, had lost their
power to quicken the pulse.

The days dragged slowly on. A few wan-faced men worked, many lounged in
the narrow streets, playing games of chance, betting on the outcome of
the war, quarreling, complaining, boasting. Now they talked vauntingly,
telling tales of the Englishman's prowess and the Indian's cowardice.
Again, they told dismal stories of Indian cruelty and massacre, and
shook their heads over their own prospects.

But every idler had his firelock close at hand, and all the time the
sentinels on the bastions kept a sharp lookout. Every little while rapid
firing broke the monotony of the long watch; the rolling drum called the
garrison to the ramparts; wounded men groaned under the rough kindness
of the fort surgeon; the dead received the soldiers' burial. But over
all the old flag with its red cross, stained with rain and smoke,
flapped defiantly.

Major Gladwi