The Rangers, rushing up, seized burning brands and commenced setting fire to house after house, whilst their comrades stood at a short distance shooting down the Indians as they burst forth.  A scene of the wildest terror and confusion was now illumined by the glare of the fire, and at short intervals came the sound of short, sharp explosions, as the flames reached the charged guns of the Indians or the kegs of gunpowder lavishly stored in their houses.

But Charles stood like a statue in the midst of the turmoil.  His face was white and terrible; his gun was in his hands.  He did not attempt to fire it, although Indians were scuttling past him like hunted hares; he stood stern and passive, biding his time.

The ring of flame round the centre house rose higher and higher.  Cries and screams were heard issuing from within.  Some intrepid warrior was chanting his death song, dauntless to the last.  A frightened squaw was shrieking aloud; but not even the sound of a woman’s voice moved Charles from his fell purpose.

Suddenly his, face changed; the light flashed into his eyes.  He raised his head, and he laid his gun to his shoulder.

Out upon the roof of the cabin, ringed as it was with fire, there sprang a man of gigantic aspect, daubed and tattooed in vermilion, his hair braided in scarlet, and one white tuft conspicuous in the black.  He stood upon the roof, glaring wildly round him as if meditating a spring.  Doubtless the smoke and fire shielded him in some sort from observation.  Had not there been one relentless foe vowed to his destruction, he might in all probability have leaped the ring of flame and escaped with his life.

But Charles had covered him with his gun.  The chieftain saw the gleaming barrel, and paused irresolute.  Charles’s voice rose clear above the surrounding din.

“Murderer, tyrant, tormentor of helpless women and babes, the white man’s God doth war against thee.  The hour of thy death has come.  As thou hast done unto others, so shall it be done unto thee.”

Then the sharp report of the rifle sounded, and the chief bounded into the air and fell back helpless.  He was not dead—­his yells of rage and fear told that—­but he was helpless.  His thigh was shattered.  He lay upon the roof of the blazing cabin unable to move hand or foot, and Charles stood by like a grim sentinel till the frail building collapsed into a burning mass; then with a fierce gesture he stirred the ashes with the butt of his rifle, saying beneath his breath: 

“That is one of them!”

Victory for the white man was complete, notwithstanding that bands of Indians from the other side of the river came rushing to the succour of their allies.  They came too late, and were scattered and dispersed by the resolute fire of the English.  The whole village was destroyed.  Colonel Armstrong took as many arms and as much ammunition as his men could carry, and devoted the rest to destruction.