Before noon, on the following day, the boat that was to convey Major Montgomerie and his niece to the American shore, pulled up to the landing-place in front of the fort. The weather, as on the preceding day, was fine, and the river exhibited the same placidity of surface. Numerous bodies of Indians were collected on the banks, pointing to and remarking on the singularity of the white flag which hung drooping at the stern of the boat. Presently the prisoners were seen advancing to the bank, accompanied by General Brock, Commodore Barclay, and the principal officers of the garrison. Major Montgomerie appeared pleased at the prospect of the liberty that awaited him, while the countenance of his niece, on the contrary, presented an expression of deep thought, although it was afterwards remarked by Granville and Villiers, both close observers of her demeanor, that as her eye occasionally glanced in the direction of Detroit, it lighted up with an animation strongly in contrast with the general calm and abstractedness of her manner. All being now ready, Gerald Grantham, who had received his final instructions from the General offered his arm to Miss Montgomerie, who, to all outward appearance, took it mechanically and unconsciously, although, in the animated look which the young sailor turned upon her in the next instant, there was evidence the contact had thrilled electrically to his heart. After exchanging a cordial pressure of the hand with his gallant entertainers, and reiterating to the General his thanks for the especial favor conferred upon him, the venerable Major followed them to the boat. His departure was the signal for much commotion among the Indians. Hitherto they had had no idea of what was in contemplation; but when they saw them enter and take their seats in the boat, they raised one of those terrific shouts which have so often struck terror and dismay; and brandishing their weapons, seemed ready to testify their disapprobation by something more than words. It was however momentary—a commanding voice made itself heard, even amid the din of their loud yell, and, when silence had been obtained, a few animated sentences, uttered in a tone of deep authority, caused the tumult at once to subside. The voice was that of Tecumseh, and there were few among his race who, brave and indomitable as they were, could find courage to thwart his will. Meanwhile the boat, impelled by eight active seamen, urged its way through the silvery current, and in less than an hour from its departure had disappeared.

Two hours had elapsed—the General and superior officers had retired—and the Indians, few by few, had repaired to their several encampments, except a party of young warriors, who, wrapped in their blankets and mantles, lay indolently extended on the grass, smoking their pipes, or producing wild sounds from their melancholy flutes. Not far from these, sat, with their legs overhanging the edge of the steep bank, a group of the junior officers of the garrison, who, with that indifference which characterized their years, were occupied in casting pebbles into the river, and watching the bubbles that arose to the surface. Among the number was Henry Grantham, and, at a short distance from him, sat the old but athletic negro, Sambo, who, not having been required to accompany Gerald, to whom he was especially attached, had continued to linger on the bank long after his anxious eye had lost sight of the boat in which the latter had departed. While thus engaged, a new direction was given to the interest of all parties by a peculiar cry, which reached them from a distance over the water, apparently from beyond the near extremity of the island of Bois Blanc. To the officers the sound was unintelligible, for it was the first of the kind they had ever heard; but the young Indians appeared fully to understand its import. Starting from their lethargy, they sprang abruptly to their feet; and giving a sharp, answering yell, stamped upon the green turf, and snuffed the hot air with distended nostrils, like so many wild horses let loose upon the desert. Nor was the excitement confined to these, for, all along the line of encampment the same wild notes were echoed, and forms came bounding again to the front, until the bank was once more peopled with savages.

"What was the meaning of that cry, Sambo, and whence came it?" asked Henry Grantham, who, as well as his companions, had strained his eyes in every direction, but in vain, to discover its cause.

"Dat a calp cry, Massa Henry—see he dere a canoe not bigger than a hick'ry nut," and he pointed with his finger to what in fact had the appearance of being little larger; "I wish," he pursued, with bitterness, "dey bring him calp of dem billains Desborough—Dam him lying tief."

"Bravo!" exclaimed De Courcy, who, in common with his companions, recollecting Gerald's story of the preceding day, was at no loss to understand why the latter epithet had been so emphatically bestowed; "I see (winking to Henry Grantham) you have not forgiven his paddling round the gun-boat the other night, while you and the rest of the crew were asleep, eh, Sambo?"

"So help me hebben, Obbicer, he no sail around a gun-boat, he dam a Yankee. He come along a lake like a dam tief in e night and I tell a Massa Geral—and Massa Geral and me chase him all ober e water—I not asleep. Massa Courcy," pursued the old man, with pique; "I nebber sleep—Massa Geral nebber sleep."

"The devil ye don't," observed De Courcy, quaintly; "then the Lord deliver me from gun-boat service, I say."

"Amen!" responded Villiers.

"Why," asked Middlemore, "do Gerald Grantham and old Frumpy here remind one of a certain Irish festival? Do you give it up? Because they are awake——"

The abuse heaped on the pre-eminently vile attempt was unmeasured—Sambo conceived it a personal affront to himself, and he said, with an air of mortification and wounded dignity, not unmixed with anger:

"Sambo poor black nigger—obbicer berry white man, but him heart all ob a color. He no Frumpy—Massa Geral no like an Irish bestibal. I wonder he no tick up for a broder, Massa Henry." His agitation here was extreme.

"Nonsense, Sambo—don't you see we are only jesting with you?" said the youth, in the kindest tone—for he perceived that the faithful creature was striving hard to check the rising tear—"there is not an officer here who does not respect you for your long attachment to my family, and none would willingly give you pain; neither should you suppose they would say anything offensive in regard of my brother Gerald."

Pacified by this assurance, which was moreover corroborated by several of his companions, really annoyed at having pained the old man, Sambo sank once more into respectful silence, still however continuing to occupy the same spot. During this colloquy the cry had been several times repeated, and as often replied to from the shore; and now a canoe was distinctly visible, urging its way to the beach. The warriors it contained were a scouting party, six in number—four paddling the light bark, and one at the helm, while the sixth, who appeared to be the leader, stood upright in the bow, waving from the long pole, to which it was attached, a human scalp. A few minutes and the whole had landed, and were encircled on the bank by their eager and inquiring comrades. Their story was soon told. They had encountered two Americans at some distance on the opposite shore, who were evidently making the best of their way through the forest to Detroit. They called upon them to deliver themselves up, but the only answer was an attempt at flight. The Indians fired, and one fell dead, pierced by many balls. The other, however, who happened to be considerably in advance, threw all his energy into his muscular frame; and being untouched by the discharge that had slain his companion, succeeded in gaining a dense underwood, through which he finally effected his escape. The scouts continued their pursuit for upwards of an hour, but finding it fruitless, returned to the place where they had left their canoe, having first secured the scalp and spoils of the fallen man.

"Dam him, debbel," exclaimed Sambo, who, as well as the officers, had approached the party detailing their exploit, and had fixed his dark eye on the dangling trophy—"May I nebber see a hebben ib he not a calp of a younger Desborough. I know him lying tief by he hair—he all yaller like a soger's breastplate—curse him rascal (and his white and even teeth were exhibited in the grin that accompanied the remark,) he nebber more say he sail round Massa Geral's gun-boat, and Massa Geral and Sambo sleep."

"By Jove he is right," said De Courcy. "I recollect remarking the color of the fellow's hair yesterday, when, on calling for a glass of "gin sling," at the inn to which I had conducted him, he threw his slouched hat unceremoniously on the table, and rubbed the fingers of both hands through his carrotty locks, until they appeared to stand like those of the Gorgon, perfectly on end."

"And were there other proof wanting," said Villiers, "we have it here in the spoil his slayers are exhibiting to their companions. There is the identical powder horn, bullet pouch, and waist belt, which he wore when he landed on this very spot."

"And I," said Middlemore, "will swear by the crooked buckhorn handle of that huge knife or dagger; for in our struggle on the sands yesterday morning, his blanket coat came open, and discovered the weapon, on which I kept a sharp eye during the whole affair. Had he but managed to plant that monster (and he affected to shudder,) under my middle ribs, then would it have been all over with poor Middlemore."

"There cannot be a doubt," remarked Henry Grantham. "With Sambo and De Courcy, I well recollect the hair, and I also particularly noticed the handle of his dagger, which, as you perceive, has a remarkable twist in it."

All doubt was put to rest by Sambo, who, having spoken with its possessor for a moment, now returned, bearing the knife, at the extremity of the handle of which was engraved, on a silver shield, the letters P. E. T. A. Ens. M. M.

"Paul Emilius Theophilus Arnoldi, Ensign Michigan Militia," pursued Grantham, reading. "This, then, is conclusive, and we have to congratulate ourselves that one at least of two of the vilest scoundrels this country ever harbored, has at length met the fate he merited."

"Fate him merit, Massa Henry!" muttered the aged and privileged negro, with something like anger in his tones, as he returned the knife to the Indian, "he dam 'serter from a king! No, no he nebber deserb a die like dis. He ought to hab a rope roun him neck and die him lying tief like a dog."

"I guess, however, our friend Jeremiah has got clean slick off," said Villiers, imitating the tone and language of that individual, "and he, I take it, is by far the more formidable of the two. I expect that, before he dies, he will give one of us a long shot yet, in revenge for the fall of young hopeful."

"Traitorous and revengeful scoundrel!" aspirated Henry Grantham, as the recollection of the manner of his father's death came over his mind. "It is, at least, some consolation to think his villainy has in part met its reward. I confess, I exult in the death of young Desborough, less even because a dangerous enemy has been removed, than because in his fall the heart of the father will be racked in its only assailable point. I trust I am not naturally cruel, yet do I hope the image of his slain partner in infamy may ever after revisit his memory, and remind him of his crime."

An exclamation of the Indians now drew the attention of the officers to a boat that came in sight, in the direction in which that of Gerald Grantham had long since disappeared, and as she drew nearer, a white flag floating in the stern, became gradually distinguishable. Expressions of surprise passed among the officers, by whom various motives were assigned as the cause of the return of the flag of truce, for that it was their own boat no one doubted, especially as, on approaching sufficiently near, the blue uniform of the officer who steered the boat was visible to the naked eye. On a yet nearer approach, however, it was perceived that the individual in question wore not the uniform of the British navy, but that of an officer of the American line, the same precisely, indeed, as that of Major Montgomerie. It was further remarked that there was no lady in the boat, and that, independently of the crew, there was besides the officer already named, merely one individual, dressed in the non-commissioned uniform, who seemed to serve as his orderly. Full evidence being now had that this was a flag sent from the American fort, which had, in all probability, missed Gerald by descending one channel of the river formed by Turkey Island, while the latter had ascended by the other, the aid-de-camp, De Courcy, hastened to acquaint General Brock with the circumstance, and to receive his orders. By the time the American reached the landing-place, the youth had returned, accompanying a superior officer of the staff. Both descended the flight of steps leading to the river, when, having saluted the officer, after a moment or two of conversation, they proceeded to blindfold him. This precaution having been taken, the American was then handed over the gun-wale of the boat, and assisted up the flight of steps by the two British officers on whose arms he leaned. As they passed through the crowd, on their way to the fort, the ears of the stranger were assailed by loud yells from the bands of Indians, who, with looks of intense curiosity and interest, gazed on the passing, and to them in some degree inexplicable, scene. Startling as was the fierce cry, the officer pursued his course without moving a muscle of his fine and manly form, beyond what was necessary to the action in which he was engaged. It was a position that demanded all his collectedness and courage, and he seemed as though he had previously made up his mind not to be deficient in either. Perhaps it was well that he had been temporarily deprived of sight, for could he have beheld the numerous tomahawks that were raised towards him in pantomimic representation of what they would have done had they been permitted, the view would in no way have assisted his self-possession. The entrance to the fort once gained by the little party, the clamor began to subside, and the Indians, by whom they had been followed, returned to the bank of the river to satisfy their curiosity with a view of those who had been left in the boat, to which, as a security against all possible outrage, a sergeant's command had meanwhile been despatched.

It was in the drawing-room of Colonel D'Egville, that the General, surrounded by his chief officers, awaited the arrival of the flag of truce. Into this the American Colonel, for such was his rank, after traversing the area of the fort that lay between, was now ushered, and, the bandage being removed, his eye encountered several to whom he was personally known, and with these such salutations as became the occasion were exchanged.

"The flag you bear, sir," commenced the general, after a few moments of pause succeeding these greetings, "relates, I presume, to the prisoners so recently fallen into our hands."

"By no means, General," returned the American, "this is the first intimation I have had of such fact—my mission is of a wholly different nature. I am deputed by the officer commanding the forces of the United States to summon the garrison of Amherstburg, with all its naval dependencies, to surrender within ten days from this period."

The General smiled. "A similar purpose seems to have actuated us both," he observed. "A shorter limit have I prescribed to the officer by whom I have, this very day, sent a message to General Hull; where, may I ask, did you pass my flag?"

"I met with none, General, and yet my boat kept as nearly in the middle of the stream as possible."

"Then must ye have passed each other on the opposite sides of Turkey Island. The officer in charge was moreover accompanied by two of the prisoners to whom I have alluded—one a field officer in your own regiment."

"May I ask who?" interrupted the American quickly, and slightly coloring.

"Major Montgomerie."

"So I suspected. Was the other of my regiment?"

"The other," said the General, "bears no commission, and is simply a volunteer in the expedition—one, in short, whose earnest wish to reach Detroit, was the principal motive for my offering the Major his liberty on parole."

"And may I ask the name of this individual, so unimportant in rank, and yet so filled with ardor in the cause, as to be thus anxious to gain the theatre of war?"

"One probably not unknown to you, Colonel, as the niece of your brother officer—Miss Montgomerie."

"Miss Montgomerie here!" faltered the American, rising and paling as he spoke, while he mechanically placed on the table a glass of wine he had the instant before raised to his lips—"surely it cannot be."

There was much to excite interest, not only in the changed tone but in the altered features of the American, as he thus involuntarily gave expression to his surprise. The younger officers winked at each other, and smiled their conviction of une affaire de coeur—while the senior were no less ready to infer that they had now arrived at the true secret of the impatience of Miss Montgomerie to reach the place of her destination. To the penetrating eye of the General, however, there was an expression of pain on the countenance of the officer, which accorded ill with the feeling which a lover might be supposed to entertain, who had been unexpectedly brought nearer to an object of attachment, and he kindly sought to relieve his evident embarrassment by remarking:

"I can readily comprehend your surprise, Colonel. One would scarcely have supposed that a female could have had courage to brave the dangers attendant on an expedition of this kind, in an open boat; but Miss Montgomerie I confess, appears to me to be one whom no danger could daunt, and whose resoluteness of purpose, once directed, no secondary object could divert from its original aim."

Before the officer could reply, Colonel D'Egville, who had absented himself during the latter part of the conversation, returned, and addressing the former in terms that proved their acquaintance to have been of previous date, invited him to partake of some refreshment that had been prepared for him in an adjoining apartment. This the American at first faintly declined, on the plea of delay having been prohibited by his chief; but, on the general jocosely remarking that, sharing their hospitality on the present occasion would be no barrier to breaking a lance a week hence, he assented; and, following Colonel D'Egville, passed through a short corridor into a smaller apartment, where a copious but hurried refreshment had been prepared.

The entry of the officers was greeted by the presence of three ladies—Mrs. D'Egville and her daughters—all of whom received him with the frank cordiality that bespoke intimacy, while, on the countenance of one of the latter, might be detected evidences of an interest that had its foundation in something more than the mere esteem which dictated the conduct of her mother and sister. If Julia D'Egville was in reality the laughing, light hearted, creature represented in the mess room conversation of the officers of the garrison, it would have been difficult for a stranger to have recognised her in the somewhat serious girl who now added her greetings to theirs, but in a manner slightly tinctured with embarrassment.

The American, who seemed not to notice it, directed his conversation, as he partook of the refreshment, principally to Mrs. D'Egville, to whom he spoke various ladies at Detroit, friends of both, who were deep deplorers of the war and the non-communication which it occasioned; alluded to the many delightful parties that had taken place, yet were now interrupted; and to the many warm friendships which had been formed, yet might by this event be severed for ever. He concluded by presenting a note from a very intimate friend of the family, to which, he said, he had been requested to take back a written answer.

A feeling of deep gratification pervaded the benevolent countenance of Mrs. D'Egville, as, on perusal, she found that it contained the offer of an asylum for herself and daughters in case Amherstburgh should be carried by storm.

"Excellent, kind hearted friend!" she exclaimed when she had finished—"this indeed does merit an answer. Need of assistance, however, there is none, since my noble friend, the General has pledged himself to anticipate any attempt to make our soil the theatre of war—still, does it give me pleasure to be enabled to reciprocate her offer, by promising, in my turn, an asylum against all chances of outrage on the part of the wild Indians, attached to our cause"—and she left the room.

No sooner did the American find himself alone with the sisters, for Colonel D'Egville had previously retired to the General, than discarding all reserve, and throwing himself on his knees at the feet of her who sat next him, he exclaimed in accents of the most touching pathos:

"Julia, dearest Julia! for this chiefly am I here. I volunteered to be the bearer of the summons to the British General, in the hope that some kind chance would give you to my view, and now that fortune, propitious beyond my utmost expectations, affords me the happiness of speaking to you whom I had feared never to behold more, oh, tell me that, whatever be the result of this unhappy war, you will not forget me. For me, I shall ever cherish you in my heart's core."

The glow which mantled over the cheek of the agitated girl, plainly told that this passionate appeal was made to no unwilling ear. Still she spoke not.

"Dearest Julia, answer me—the moments of my stay are few, and at each instant we are liable to interruption. In one word, therefore, may I hope? In less than a week, many who have long been friends will meet as enemies. Let me then at least have the consolation to know from your lips, that whatever be the event, that dearest of all gifts—your love is unchangeably mine."

"I do promise, Ernest," faltered the trembling girl. "My heart is yours and yours for ever—but do not unnecessarily expose yourself," and her head sank confidingly on the shoulder of her lover.

"Thank you, dearest," and the encircling arm of the impassioned officer drew her form closer to his beating heart. "Gertrude, you are witness of her vow, and before you, under more auspicious circumstances, will I claim its fulfilment. Oh Julia, Julia, this indeed does recompense me for many a long hour of anxiety and doubt."

"And hers too have been hours of anxiety and doubt," said the gentle Gertrude. "Ever since the war has been spoken of as certain, Julia has been no longer the gay girl she was. Her dejection has been subject of remark with all, and such is her dislike to any allusion to the past, that she never even rallies Captain Cranstoun on his bear-skin adventure of last winter on the ice."

"Ah," interrupted the American, "never shall I forget the evening that preceded that adventure. It was then, dearest Julia, that I ventured to express the feeling with which you had inspired me. It was then I had first the delight of hearing from your lips that I need not entirely despair. I often, often, think of that night."

"Of course you have not yet received my note, Ernest. Perhaps you will deem it inconsiderate in me to have written, but I could not resist the desire to afford you what I conceived would be a gratification, by communicating intelligence of ourselves."

"Note! what note! and by whom conveyed?"

"Have you not heard," inquired Gertrude, warming into animation, "that the General has sent a flag this morning to Detroit, and, under its protection, two prisoners captured by my cousin, who is the officer that conducts them."

"And to that cousin you have confided the letter?" interrupted the Colonel, somewhat eagerly.

"No, not my cousin," said Julia, "but to one I conceived better suited to the trust. You must know that my father, with his usual hospitality, insisted on Major Montgomerie and his niece, the parties in question, taking up their abode with us during the short time they remained."

"And to Miss Montgomerie you gave your letter," hurriedly exclaimed the Colonel, starting to his feet, and exhibiting a countenance of extreme paleness.

"Good heaven, Ernest! what is the matter? Surely you do not think me guilty of imprudence in this affair. I was anxious to write to you,—I imagined you would be glad to hear from me, and thought that the niece of one of your officers would be the most suitable medium of communication. I therefore confessed to her my secret, and requested her to take charge of the letter."

"Oh, Julia, you have been indeed imprudent. But what said she—how looked she when you confided to her our secret?"

"She made no other remark than to ask how long our attachment had existed, and her look and voice were calm, and her cheek underwent no variation from the settled paleness observable there since her arrival."

"And in what manner did she receive her trust?" again eagerly demanded the Colonel.

"With a solemn assurance that it should be delivered to you with her own hand—then, and then only, did a faint smile animate her still but beautiful features. Yet why all these questions, Ernest? Or, can it really be? Tell me," and the voice of the young girl became imperative, "has Miss Montgomerie any claim upon your hand—she admitted to have known you?"

"On my honor, none;" impressively returned the Colonel.

"Oh, what a weight you have removed from my heart, Ernest, but wherefore you alarm, and wherein consists my imprudence?"

"In this only, dearest Julia, that I had much rather another than she had been admitted into your confidence. But as you have acted for the best, I cannot blame you. Still I doubt not," and the tones of the American were low and desponding, "that, as she has promised, she will find means to deliver your note into my own hands—the seal is——?"

"A fancy one—Andromache disarming Hector."

"Rise, for Heaven's sake rise," interrupted Gertrude; "here comes mamma."

One fond pressure of her graceful form, and the Colonel had resumed his seat. In the next moment Mrs. D'Egville entered, by one door, and immediately afterwards her husband by another. The former handed her note, and during the remarks which accompanied its delivery, gave the little party—for Gertrude was scarcely less agitated than her sister—time to recover from their embarrassment. Some casual conversation then ensued, when the American, despite of Mrs. D'Egville's declaration that he could not have touched a single thing during her absence, expressed his anxiety to depart. The same testimonies of friendly greeting, which had marked his entrance, were exchanged, and, preceded by his kind host, the Colonel once more gained the apartment where the General still lingered, awaiting his reappearance.

Nothing remaining to be added to the answer already given to the summons, the American, after exchanging salutations with such of the English officers as were personally known to him, again submitted himself to the operation of blindfolding; after which he was reconducted to the beach, where his boat's crew, who had in their turn been supplied with refreshments, were ready to receive him. As, on his arrival, the loud yellings of the Indians accompanied his departure, but as these had been found to be harmless, they were even less heeded than before. Within two hours, despite of the strong current, the boat had disappeared altogether from their view.

Late in that day, the barge of Gerald Grantham returned from Detroit. Ushered into the presence of the General, the young sailor communicated the delivery of his charge into the hands of the American Chief, who had returned his personal acknowledgments for the courtesy. His answer to the summons, however, was that having a force fully adequate to the purpose, he was prepared to defend the fort to the last extremity, and waiving his own original plan of attack, would await the British General on the defensive, when to the God of Battles should be left the decision of the contest. To a question on the subject, the young officer added that he had seen nothing of the American flag of truce, either in going or returning.

That night orders were issued to the heads of the different departments, immediately to prepare material for a short siege; and, an assault at the termination of the third day.