The whole line crept forward and paused again behind another row of stumps.  A general volley met them and they found protection none too soon.  Bullets chipped little pieces off the stumps or struck in the ground about them.  But Robert knew that they had been fired largely at random, or had been drawn perhaps by a slight noise.  There was a strong temptation to return the fire in a like manner, but he had the strength of mind to withhold his aim for the present, and not shoot until he had a sure target.

Yet the dim battle in the fog increased in volume.  More skirmishers from the forces of St. Luc came up, and the line of fire spread to both left and right.  A yell was heard now and then, and it was evident that the Indians in large numbers were coming into the combat.  Willet’s band was reenforced also from the camp, and his line extended to meet that of the foe.  Rifles cracked incessantly, the white fog was sprinkled with pink dots, and, above the heads of the men, it was darkened by the smoke that rose from the firing.  At rare intervals a deep cheer from a borderer replied to the savage war whoop.

A man four stumps from Robert was hit in the head and died without a sound, but Willet, firing at the flash of the rifle that slew him, avenged his loss.  A bullet grazed Robert’s head, cutting off two locks of hair very neatly.  Its passage took his breath for a moment or two, and gave him a shock, but he recovered quickly, and, still controlling his impulse to pull trigger in haste, looked for something at which to aim.

The fog had not lifted at all, but by gazing into its heart a long time, Robert was able to see a little distance.  Now and then the figure of an enemy, as he leaped from the shelter of one stump to another, was outlined dimly, but invariably there was not enough time for a shot.  Soon he made out a large stump not very far ahead of him, and he saw the flash of a rifle from it.  He caught a glimpse only of the hands that held the weapon, but he believed them to be a white man’s hands and he believed also that the man behind the stump was one of the best French sharpshooters.

Robert resolved to bring down the Frenchman, who presently, when firing once more, might then expose enough of himself for a target.  He waited patiently and the second shot came.  He saw the hands again, the arms, part of one shoulder and the side of the head, and taking quick aim he pulled the trigger, though he was satisfied that his bullet had missed.

But the flame of battle was lighted in Robert’s soul.  Hating nobody and wishing good to all, he nevertheless sought to kill, because some one was seeking to kill him, and because killing was the business of those about him.  What came to be known later as mass psychology took hold of him.  All his mental and physical powers were concentrated on the single task of slaying an enemy.  The affair now resolved itself into a duel between single foes.