The sudden and heavy attack upon his flank compelled St. Luc to take the defensive, and put him at a certain disadvantage, but he marshaled his superior numbers so well that the battle became doubtful, with every evidence that it would be drawn out to great length.  Moreover, the chevalier had maneuvered so artfully that his whole force was now drawn directly across the path of the rangers and Mohawks, and the way to Johnson was closed, for the time, at least.

An hour, two hours, the battle swayed to and fro among the trees and bushes.  Had their opponent been any other than St. Luc the three leaders, Willet, Rogers and Daganoweda, would have triumphed by that time, but French, Canadians and Indians alike drew courage from the dauntless Chevalier.  More than once they would have abandoned the field, but he marshaled them anew, and always he did it in a manner so skillful that the loss was kept at the lowest possible figure.

The forest was filled with smoke, though the high sun shot it through with luminous rays.  But no one looking upon the battle could have told which was the loser and which the winner.  The losses on the two sides were about equal, and St. Luc, holding the hill, still lay across the path of rangers and Mohawks.  Robert, who was crouched behind the trunk of a great oak, felt a light touch upon his arm, and, looking back, saw Tayoga.

“The time has come, Dagaeoga,” said the Onondaga.

“What time?”

“The time for us to leave the battle and run as fast as we may to Waraiyageh.”

“I had forgotten.  The conflict here had gotten so much into my blood that I couldn’t think of anything else.  But, as I said it would be, it’s hard to go.”

“Go, Robert!” called Willet from a tree twenty feet away.  “Curve around St. Luc.  Do what Tayoga says—­he can scent danger like an animal of the forest—­and make all speed to Johnson.  Maybe we’ll join you in his camp later on.”

“Good-by, Dave,” said Robert, swallowing hard.  He crept away with the Onondaga, not rising to his full height for a long time.  Then the two stood for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the battle, which seemed to be increasing in violence.  Far through the forest they faintly saw the drifting smoke and the sparks of fire from the rifles and muskets.

“Once more I say it’s hard to leave our friends there,” exclaimed Robert.

“But our path leads that way,” said Tayoga, pointing southward.

They struck, without another word, into the long, loping run that the forest runners use with such effect, and sped southward.  The sounds of the conflict soon died behind them, and they were in the stillness of the woods, where no enemy seemed near.  But they did not decrease their pace, leaping the little brooks, wading the wider streams, and flitting like shades through forest and thicket.  Twice they crossed Indian trails, but paid no heed to them.  Once a warrior, perhaps a hunter, fired a long shot at them, but as his bullet missed they paid no attention to him, but, increasing their speed, fled southward at a pace no ordinary man could overtake.