So bitter were the Iroquois, that all the fall and all the winter Montreal had been in a state of siege.
Tired of such one-sided warfare, Piskaret resolved to strike another blow. The broad St. Lawrence was fast locked by the winter's ice. His small party dragged their three canoes over the level snowy surface, and on eastward across a tongue of timbered land, to the River Richelieu. This connects Lake Champlain of New York and the St. Lawrence in Canada.
The Richelieu, flowing black and deep, had opened. It was the water-trail of the Iroquois, and especially of the Mohawks. By it they made their forays north to the St. Lawrence and the camps of their enemies.
Every thicket along its banks and every curve in its course was likely to be an ambush; but the fearless Piskaret party ascended clear to Lake Champlain itself. Here they landed upon an island, concealed themselves and their canoes in the wintry forest, and waited.
One day they heard a gun-shot. Some Iroquois were about, upon the lake or upon the mainland.
"Come," spoke Piskaret, to his party. "Let us eat. It may be the last time, for we will have to die instead of run."
After they had eaten, they saw two canoes making straight for the island. Each canoe held seven Iroquois. That counted up fourteen, or two to one.
However, the Piskaret party had the advantage of position. They hid in the bushes at the place for which the canoes were heading.
"Let us each choose a man in the first canoe," directed Piskaret, "and take sure aim, and fire together."
The volley by the Algonkins was so deadly that every one of the six balls killed an Iroquois. The seventh warrior dived overboard, and escaped by swimming to the other canoe. That had been swift work.