Isaac" sprang overboard, and a
moment later voyageur and raw recruit, waist deep in water, following
the example of the hero of Castle Cornet, lifted the batteau over the
dangerous ledge.

When at midnight the boats passed up the Strait--through which the
ambitious La Salle and Father Hennepin had passed in 1679--and grated on
the gravel beach at Amherstburg, Brock was greeted with a volley of
musketry by the Indians. This was contrary to his rigid rubric of war.
Such waste of powder must not be tolerated. He turned to the Indian
superintendent, "Do pray, Colonel Elliott," said he, "explain my reasons
for objecting to the firing and tell the Chiefs I will talk with them
to-morrow."

[Illustration: OUR HERO MEETS TECUMSEH. "THIS IS A MAN!"]

CHAPTER XVII.

OUR HERO MEETS TECUMSEH.

A few minutes only had elapsed when Elliott returned. The sentry's
challenge caused Brock to look up from the table, littered with plans
and despatches. Another figure darkened the doorway.

"This, sir," said Elliott, "is Tecumseh, the Shawanese chief of whom you
have heard, and who desires to be presented to you."

The General, who had removed the stains of travel and was in uniform,
rose to his full height, bowed, extended his hand and explained in manly
fashion the reason for asking that the firing be stopped. The contrast
presented by the two men was striking. The old world and the new, face
to face--a scene for the brush of an impressionist. Brock, tall, fair,
big-limbed, a blue-eyed giant, imposing in scarlet coat and blue-white
riding trousers, tasselled Hessian boots, and cocked-hat in hand. On his
benevolent face was an irresistible smile.

The Indian, though of middle height, was of most perfect proportions, an
athlete in bronze, lithe and supple as a panther. His oval face, set in
a frame of glistening black hair, shone like a half-polished copper
relief. Overlooking the nose, straight as one of his own arrows, and
from which some tinkling silver coins were suspended, a pair of
hawk-like eyes, hazel-black and unflinching--in which the secrets of the
world seemed slumbering--gleamed upon Brock. His dress, a hunting
jacket of tanned deer-skin and close-fitting leggings. Fringed mocassins
of the same material, richly embroidered in silk and porcupine quills
dyed in divers colours, encased his feet. The light from the open log
fire flickered fitfully, half revealing the antlered heads of moose and
caribou and other tr