A number of Indians, whose chief dress was a breach clout and
deerskin leggings, formidable in their war-paint and war plumes,
with scalping-knives and tomahawks, were only partially held in
hand by Chief Brant, conspicuous by his height, his wampum fillet
and eagle plumes, and his King George's medal on his breast.

"Drive on to the village," said Major-General Sheaffe, who was now
chief in command, to Zenas as he passed. "You will find plenty to
do there."

At the house where Brock's body lay, a single sentry stood at
guard, his features settled in a fixed and stony stare, as though
by a resolute effort controlling his emotions. Beyond the village
a strong guard was drawn up, and two field pieces, with their
gunners, occupied the road.

Soldiers were passing in and out of a large barn which stood near
the roadside. They came in groups of two each from the trampled
hill slope, bearing on stretchers their ghastly burden of bleeding
and wounded men. Although coming within musket-range of the
American force, no molestation was offered. Their work of humanity
was felt to be too sacred for even red-handed War to disturb.
Indeed, both American and British wounded were cared for with
generous impartiality.

Zenas and Neville, assisted by an officer's orderly, conveyed
their hospital stores into the barn. On bundles of unthreshed
wheat, or on trusses of hay, were a number of writhing, groaning,
bleeding forms, a few hours since in the vigour of manhood's