Among their number was John Bumpus, who was one of the crew of Montague’s boat, and who now rushed upon the savages with a howl peculiarly his own, felling one with a blow of his fist, and another with a slash of his cutlass.

“You must retire,” said Montague, hastily, to Frederick Mason, who stood panting and inactive for a few moments in order to recover breath.  “You are unarmed, sir; besides, your profession forbids you taking part in such work as this.  There are men of war enough here to keep these fellows in play.”

Montague spoke somewhat sharply; for he erroneously fancied that the missionary’s love of fighting had led him into the fray.

“My profession does not forbid me to save my child,” exclaimed the pastor, wildly.

He turned in the direction of his cottage, which was full in view; and at that moment smoke burst from the roof and windows.  With a cry of despair, Mr. Mason once more launched himself on the host of savages; but these were now so numerous that, instead of making head against them, the little knot of sailors who opposed them at that particular place found it was as much as they could do to keep them at bay.

The issue of the conflict was still doubtful, when a large accession to their numbers gave the savages additional power and courage.  They made a sudden onset, and bore back the small band of white men.  In the rush the pastor was overthrown, and rendered for a time insensible.

While this was going on in one part of the field, in another, stout Ole Thorwald, with several of the white settlers and the greater part of the native force, was guarding the principal approach to the church against immensely superior numbers.  And nobly did the descendant of the Norse sea-kings maintain the credit of his warlike ancestors that day.  With a sword that might have matched that of Goliath of Gath, he swept the way before him wherever he went, and more than once by a furious onset turned the tide of war in favor of his party when it seemed about to overwhelm them.

In a more distant part of the field, on the banks of a small stream, which was spanned by a bridge about fifty paces further down, Gascoyne and Henry Stuart contended, almost alone, with about thirty savages.  These two had rushed forward with such impetuosity at the first onset as to have been separated from their friends, and with four Christian natives, had been surrounded.  Henry was armed with a heavy claymore, the edge of which betokened that it had once seen much service in the wars of the youth’s Scottish ancestors.  Gascoyne, not anticipating this attack, had returned to the settlement armed only with his knife.  He had seized the first weapon that came to hand, which chanced to be an enormous iron shovel, and with this terrific implement the giant carried all before him.

It was quite unintentionally that he and Henry had come together.  But the nature and power of the two men being somewhat similar, they had singled out the same point of danger, and had made their attack with the same overwhelming vehemence.  The muscles of both seemed to be made of iron; for, as increasing numbers pressed upon them, they appeared to deliver their terrible blows with increasing rapidity and vigor, and the savages, despite their numbers, began to quail before them.