g with the
wildness of the scene, with their painted bodies, their fierce eyes and
their glittering tomahawks. But around Robert and Tayoga were the young
Philadelphians, trained, alert men now, and following them was the
stream of New York and New England troops, strong, vigorous and alive
with enthusiasm.

The wilderness grew wilder and more dense, the Mohawks entering a great
gorge, forested heavily, down the center of which flowed a brook of
black water. Thickets spread everywhere, and there were extensive
outcroppings of rock. At one point rose precipices, with the stony
slopes of French Mountain towering beyond. At another point rose West
Mountain, though it was not so high, but at all points nature was wild
and menacing.

The air seemed to Robert to grow darker, though he was not sure whether
it was due to his imagination or to the closing in of the forests and
mountains. At the same time a chill ran through his blood, a chill of
alarm, and he knew instinctively that it was with good cause.

"Look at the great sachem!" suddenly exclaimed Tayoga.

Hendrik, loyal friend of the Americans and English, had reined in his
horse, and his old eyes were peering into the thicket on his left, the
mass of Mohawks behind him also stopping, because they knew their
venerable leader would give no alarm in vain. Tayoga, Robert, Grosvenor
and the Philadelphians stopped also, their eyes riveted on Hendrik.
Robert's heart beat hard, and millions of motes danced in the air before
his eyes.

The sachem suddenly threw up one hand in warning, and with the other
pulled back his horse. The next instant a single rifle cracked in the
thicket, but in a few seconds it was followed by the crashing fire of
hundreds. Many of the Mohawks fell, a terrible lane was cut through the
ranks of the Colonials, and the bullets whistled about the heads of the
Philadelphia troop.

"The ambush!" cried Robert.

"The ambush!" echoed the Philadelphians.

Tayoga uttered a groan. His eyes had seen a sight they did not wish to
see, however much he may have spoken of a glorious death for the old on
the battlefield. Hendrik's horse had fallen beneath the leader, but the
old chief leaped to his feet. Before he could turn a French soldier
rushed up and killed him with a bayonet. Thus died a great and wise
sachem, a devoted friend of the Americans, who had warned them in vain
against marching into a trap, but who, nevertheless, in the very moment
of his death