"Close by, man!"
"In force, too!" added Chisholm, a smart little sub, who had been watching them from a loop-hole. "There will be heads broken in ten minutes."
"I believe you, my boy," answered Evan Macpherson, (a tall fellow, with thick black curly hair and a keen dark eye,) as he adjusted his sword-belt. "They are in force enough to put us all to our mettle."
"Stand to your arms, men!" said Ronald; but the order was needless, every man being at his post. "Be bold of heart, my lads!" he added, as he watched the advancing enemy. "We shall soon be succoured."
"Not likely," said Macpherson bluntly, "with all due deference to you, Stuart. Mina, the guerilla chief, with his followers, is far down the mountains, and General Walker's brigade is scarcely within gun-shot; so we may fight till daylight without aid."
"Or till doomsday," retorted Stuart, "if the logs hold together, and the ammunition lasts. Blow, Macvurich," said he to the piper; "give us 'Roderick Mhic Alpain Dubh,' and blow till the logs shake around us."
The night was clear, the moon shone brightly, and from their loop-holes they saw the French advancing in considerable force,—probably two thousand strong. Their dark figures, enveloped in loose great coats, were seen distinctly dotting the pure white covering of the mountain-side, up the slippery ascent of which they were toiling with infinite labour.
"They are advancing in extended order," observed Stuart, "for fear of our sending them a cannon-shot, probably."
"Which shows they know nothing about our position."
"Certes," said Chisholm, "they are no economists of their persons, to advance upon us over such open ground. They are chasseurs, probably. The moon shines brightly, yet no appointments glitter about them."