Robert knew how bitter the defeat would be to St. Luc, but the knowledge did not keep his exultation from mounting to a high pitch.  St. Luc might strive with all his might to keep his men in the battle, but the Frenchmen could not be numerous, and it was the custom of Indians, once a combat seemed lost, to melt away like a mist.  They believed thoroughly that it was best to run away and fight another day, and there was no disgrace in escaping from a stricken field.

“They run!  They run!  And the Frenchmen must run with them!” exclaimed Black Rifle.  As he spoke, a bullet grazed his side and struck a soldier behind him, but the force pressed on with the ardor fed by victory.  Willet did not try any longer to restrain them, although he understood full well the danger of a battle in the dark.  But he knew that Daganoweda and his Mohawks, experienced in every forest wile, would guard them against surprise, and he deemed it best now that they should strike with all their might.

Robert seldom saw any of the warriors before him, and he did not once catch a glimpse of a Frenchman.  Whenever his rifle was loaded he fired at a flitting form, never knowing whether or not his bullet struck true, and glad of his ignorance.  His sensitive and imaginative mind became greatly excited.  The flashes of flame in the thickets were multiplied a hundred fold, a thousand little pulses beat heavily in his temples, and the shouts of the savages seemed to fill the forest.  But he pressed on, conscious that the enemy was disappearing before them.

In his eagerness he passed ahead of Willet and Tayoga and came very near to St. Luc’s retreating line.  His foot became entangled in trailing vines and he fell, but he was up in an instant, and he fired at a shadowy figure not more than twenty feet in advance.  In his haste he missed, and the figure, turning, raised a rifle.  There was a fair moonlight and Robert saw the muzzle of the weapon bearing directly upon him, and he knew too that the rifle was held by firm hands.  His vivid and sensitive imagination at once leaped into intense life.  His own weapon was empty and his last moment had come.  He saw the strong brown hands holding the rifle, and then his gaze passed on to the face of St. Luc.  He saw the blue eyes of the Frenchman, as they looked down the sights, open wide in a kind of horror.  Then he abruptly dropped the muzzle, waved one hand to Robert, and vanished in the thickets and the darkness.

The battle was over.  There were a few dying shots, scattered beads of flame, an occasional shout of triumph from the Mohawks, a defiant yell or two in reply from the Hurons and the Abenakis, and then the trail of the combat swept out of the sight and hearing of Robert, who stood dazed and yet with a heart full of gratitude.  St. Luc had held his life upon the pressure of a trigger, and the trigger would have been pulled had he not seen before it was too late who stood before the muzzle of his rifle.  The moonlight was enough for Robert to see that look of horror in his eyes when he recognized the target.  And then the weapon had been turned away and he had gone like a flash!  Why?  For what reason had St. Luc spared him in the heat and fury of a desperate and losing battle?  It must have been a powerful motive for a man to stay his bullet at such a time!