“Onontio is a fool!  Who told him to leave his rifle in his lodge?  He knoweth not so much as a beast or a reptile.  When the bear roameth in the forest, doth he leave his claws in his den, or the rattlesnake, his teeth in the hole in the rocks?  Let Onontio sing his death-song, but, softly, lest the north wind bear it to the cub, who is waiting for the second bullet in the pouch of Ohquamehud.”

A pang of inexpressible agony cut, like a knife, through the heart of Holden.  He could brave death himself, but, good God! that his son should be murdered by the savage!  The thought was too horrible.  For a moment, the courageous heart almost stopped, and, with quivering lips, he commended the young man to the protection of Providence.  But the momentary weakness soon passed away, as the dogma of divine decrees or fate occurred to his mind.  The blood flowed freer in his veins; his form straightened, and with a dignified gesture, he answered—­

“Heathen!  I have no death-song to sing.  The Christian goeth not to his Maker, boasting of his fancied merits, but, like a child, hiding its face in its mother’s bosom, and asking to be forgiven.  And know that of thyself thou art powerless.  Thou canst do only what is permitted.”

“It is well!” exclaimed Ohquamehud, a glow of admiration, at the courage with which Holden met his fate, flashing—­in spite of himself—­across his countenance, and which he vainly tried to conceal.  “The dog of a pale-face is tired of his life, and will thank Ohquamehud for sending him to the spirits of his fathers.”

So saying, he raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired.  The eyes of the Solitary had been intently fastened upon every motion of his foe, and, the instant before the gun was discharged, he threw his arms violently into the air.  Whether the gesture disconcerted the aim of the Indian, or intemperance had weakened his nerves, the rifle was aimed too high and failed of its mark.  But Holden’s escape was extremely narrow.  The bullet grazed his scalp, perforating the cap, and throwing it from his head.  In the colloquy, he had, probably, determined upon his line of conduct; for, immediately, upon the flash, he started, with an activity which his appearance hardly promised, towards his antagonist, and before the latter could club his rifle or draw a knife, had seized him around the waist, and strove to throw him on the ground.  The Indian dropped the useless gun, and returned the death-grapple.

“Child of the devil!” cried Holden, whose passions were now thoroughly roused, and who fancied himself back again to the time when he fought the red man of the West, “I will send thee, this day, to the place appointed for thee.”

Ohquamehud answered not a word, but, straining the other in an embrace as close as his own, summoned all his powers to the deadly struggle.

The two were more equally matched than might at first be supposed.  The Indian was more active, but Holden was stronger, and towered above him.  The habits of Holden had been eminently conducive to health and strength.  There was no superfluous flesh about him, and his sinews were like cord.  But, on the other hand, the youth of the Indian was a great advantage, promising an endurance beyond that to be expected from one of the years of Holden.