The man fired again in a minute or two, and the bullet chipped very close.  He was so quick, too, that Robert did not get an opportunity to return his fire, but he recognized the face and to his great surprise saw that it was De Courcelles who had taken a place in line with the skirmishers.  Rage seized him at once.  This was the man who had tried to trick him to his death in that affair with the bully, Boucher, at Quebec.  He was shaken with righteous anger.  All the kindliness and mercy that he had felt toward Langlade disappeared.  He was sure, too, that De Courcelles knew him and was trying his best to kill him.

Robert peered over his stump and sought eagerly for a shot.  He could play at that game as well as De Courcelles, but his enemy was cautious.  It was some time before he risked another bullet, and then Robert’s, in reply, missed, though he also had been untouched.  His anger increased.  Although he had little hate in his composition he could not forget that this man De Courcelles had been a party to an infamous attempt upon his life, and even now, in what amounted to a duel, was seeking to kill him.  His own impulses, under such a spur, and for the moment, were those of the slayer.  He used all the skill that he had learned in the forest to secure an opportunity for the taking of his foe’s life.

Robert sought to draw De Courcelles’ fire again, meanwhile having reloaded his own rifle, and he raised his cap a little above the edge of the stump.  But the trick was too old for the Frenchman and he did not yield to it.  Taking the chance, he thrust up his face, dropping back immediately as De Courcelles’ bullet sang over his head.  Then he sprang up and was in time to pull trigger at his enemy, who fell back.

Robert was able to tell in the single glimpse through the fog that De Courcelles was not killed.  The bullet had struck him in the shoulder, inflicting a wound, certainly painful but probably not dangerous, although it was likely to feed the man’s hate of Robert.  Even so, young Lennox was glad now that he had not killed him, that his death was not upon his hands; it was enough to disable him and to drive him out of the battle.

The fighting grew once more in volume and fury.  Rifles cracked continuously up and down the line.  The war whoop of the Indians was incessant, and the deep cheer of the borderers replied to it.  But Robert saw that the end of the combat was near; not that the rage of man was abated, but because nature, as if tired of so much strife, was putting in between a veil that would hide the hostile forces from each other.  The fog suddenly began to thicken rapidly, rolling up from the lake in great, white waves that made figures dim and shadowy, even a few paces away.

If the fighting went on it would be impossible to tell friend from foe, and Willet at once sent forth a sharp call which was repeated up and down the line.  The French leaders took like action, and, by mutual consent, the two forces fell apart.  The firing and the shouts ceased abruptly and a slow withdrawal was begun.  The fog had conquered.