tened his men, pleaded with them,
beat them into line with the flat of his sword, and finally rallied
them in a charge that cleared the fatal cellar of its yelling inmates.
But the moment the retreat was resumed the attack became as fierce and
galling as ever. Pontiac distributed his warriors from house to house,
stationing them in such advantageous positions that their fire was
well-nigh unsupportable, and every rod of the road to safety must be
stubbornly contested.

It was now daylight, and through the morning mist the harassed soldiers
could see their agile foes darting forward to cut off stragglers,
despatch the wounded, or scalp the dead, leaping back, firing, and
running to new positions, all the time yelling like so many demons. A
strong party opening fire from behind a range of fences, Captain Gray
was ordered to dislodge them. He obeyed, and fell mortally wounded at
the head of his charging company. The moment his men turned their
backs, the active foe rushed to their old position, and their fire
became hotter than before.

The retreat was now resolved into a flight, the dead lay where they
fell, and the wounded were abandoned to their fate. A sergeant shot
through the hips raised himself on his hands and gazed despairingly
after the retiring battalion. Dalzell saw him. They had fought
together on many a stubborn field, and the commander could not leave
his old comrade to perish. He sprang to the rescue of the wounded man,
and was lifting him when struck and instantly killed by an Indian
bullet. Few saw him fall, and none dared attempt the recovery of his
body.

With the death of their gallant leader, the retreating troops became a
panic-stricken mob in which every one looked out for himself. Only
Grant's little company and Rogers' handful of rangers stood firm, and
by occupying house after house as they slowly fell back, protected
somewhat the flight of the main body.

The exhausted fugitives were still at a distance from the fort when
they were met by an irregular company of traders and their employees,
the sole force that Gladwyn dared spare from his slender garrison,
under command of Paymaster Bullen. The little man in buckskin
displayed such coolness and good judgment, and was so ably supported by
his motley following, that from that moment the disastrous retreat was
effectively covered. By eight o'clock, or after six hours of marching
and fighting, the disorganized remnant of the little