His feeling of unreality increased.  The elements themselves had conspired to lend to everything a tinge weird and sinister to the last degree.  There was a lull for a little in the wind and rain, but Andiatarocte was heaving, and great waves were chasing one another over the surface of the water, after threatening to overturn the canoes and boats for which both sides fought so fiercely.  The thunder began to mutter again, furnishing a low and menacing under note like the growling of cannon in battle.  Occasional streaks of lightning flashed anew across the lake, revealing the strained faces of the combatants and tinging the surface of the waters with red.  Then both thunder and lightning ceased again, and wind and rain came with a renewed sweep and roar.

Robert and Tayoga still occupied their captured long boat alone, and they hovered near the edge of the battle, not ready to withdraw with the prize until their entire force, whether victor or vanquished, turned back from the island.  Now and then Robert struck with his tomahawk at some foe who came swimming to the attack, but, as the violence of the storm grew, both he and Tayoga were compelled to take up their paddles, and use all their skill to keep the boat from being capsized.  The shouting and the shots and the crash of the storm made a turmoil from which he could detach little, but he knew that the keen eyes of the Onondaga, dusk or no dusk, confusion or no confusion, would pierce to the heart of things.

“What do you see, Tayoga?” he exclaimed.  “How goes the battle?”

“I cannot see as much as I wish, Dagaeoga, but it turns in our favor.  I saw the Great Bear just then in a boat, and when the lightning flared last I saw Daganoweda in another.  Beware, Dagaeoga!  Beware!”

His shout of warning was just in time.  A figure rose out of the water beside their boat, and aimed a frightful blow at him with a tomahawk.  It was an impulse coming chiefly from the words of Tayoga, but Robert threw himself flat in the boat and the keen weapon whistled through the empty air.  He sprang up almost instantly, and, not having time to draw either hatchet or knife, struck with his clenched fist at the dark face glaring over the side of the boat.  It was a convulsive effort, and the fist was driven home with more than natural power.  The figure disappeared like a stone dropped into the water.

Despite the dusk, Robert had seen the countenance, and he recognized the sinister features of the French spy whom they had tried to catch in Albany, the man whose name he had no doubt was Achille Garay.  He had felt a fierce joy when his fist came into contact with his face, but he was quite sure the spy had not perished.  Hardy men of the wilderness did not die from a blow with the naked hand.  The water would revive him, and he would quickly come up again to fight elsewhere.

Tayoga leaned over suddenly and pulled in a dusky figure dripping with wounds, a Mohawk warrior, hurt badly and sure to have been lost without quick help.  There was no time to bind up his hurts, as the combat was growing thicker and fiercer, and they drove their boat into the middle of it, striking out with hatchet and knife whenever an enemy came within reach.