was cleared.

In a few moments the smoke had cleared away. Two human forms lay across
the door sill and one within the kitchen. These were the bodies of one
dead and two dying Indians. The dead man was completely scalped, the
whole top of his head being torn off. The other two were so terribly
mutilated about their faces and necks that they lived but a few minutes.
Forty minutes after Mrs. Godfrey had fired the first shot scarcely a
vestige of anything remained on the spot where the house had stood. As
soon as the savages were aware that three of their comrades had fallen
in the assault, they beat a hasty retreat.

Let the reader pause for a few moments to consider the situation of
Captain Godfrey, his wife and their five children. There they were alone
in the wilderness, thousands of miles from friends and home. Out in the
cold, amid the frost and snow of an Acadian winter, without a house to
shelter them, a friend to cheer them, or a fire to warm them; surrounded
by demons of the forest, panting and thirsting for their blood. There
was no possible escape by water, the St. John was covered by a thick
winding sheet of ice, and the sloop was lying some miles away in an icy
bed of a lake. The history of early colonial life does not and cannot
present a more affecting scene than that of the Godfrey family, as they
stood alone on the banks of the river St. John in the midnight of a Nova
Scotian winter.

All that was saved from the flames were several pieces of half-burnt
pork, the two old muskets, a few half-burnt blankets, one hundred and
forty pounds of beaver skin, between two and three hundred weight of
gunpowder, the old family Bible and service book, and a trunk containing
some papers and old clothes. The above articles Captain Godfrey and his