From time to time the wounded man dropped some words full of horror and despair.  Young Roche, new to these fearful border wars, was almost overcome by this broken narrative, realizing the fearful fate which had overtaken so many of his brave comrades of the past weeks.

When at last they reached the little cave for which Fritz was heading, and where they felt that for the moment at least they were safe, he could only throw himself along the ground in an agony of grief and physical exhaustion:  whilst the hardier Fritz bathed the wounds of their unfortunate comrade, binding them up with no small skill, and refreshing him with draughts of water from the pool hard by, which was all the sick man desired at this moment.

All three comrades were exhausted to the uttermost, and for a long while nothing broke the silence of the dim place save the long-drawn, gasping sobs of the lad.  Gradually these died away into silence, and Fritz saw that both his companions slept—­the fitful sleep of overwrought nature.  Yet he was thankful even for that.  Moving softly about he lighted a fire, and having captured one of the wild turkeys which were plentiful in the forest at that season, he proceeded to prepare a meal for them when they should awake.

Roche slept on and on, as the young will do when nature has been tried to her extreme limits; but Pringle presently opened his eyes, and looked feebly about him.

Fritz had a little weak broth to offer him by that time, and after drinking it the Captain looked a little less wan and ghastly.

“Where are we?” he asked, in a weak voice; “and how many are there of us?”

“We have only Roche with us.  We have been in the forest since the sortie when we cut our way out.  We met you the next day with half a dozen Indians at your heels.  We know nothing save what you have spoken of treachery and massacre.  Can it be true that the French permitted such abominations?  The forest was ringing with the Indian war whoops and the screams of their wretched victims!”

A shudder ran through Pringle’s frame.

“It is too true,” he said; “it is horrible—­unspeakably horrible!  Yet we must not blame the French too much.  They did what they could to prevent it.  Indeed, I heard the Marquis de Montcalm himself bidding the Indians kill him, but spare the English garrison, which had surrendered, and had been promised all the honours of war and a safe escort to Fort Edward.”

“If men will stoop to use fiends to do their work,” said Fritz sternly, “they must expect to be disgraced and defied by these fiends, over whom they have no sort of influence.  If men will use unworthy instruments, they must take the consequences.”

“Yes; but the consequences have been the massacre of our hapless sick and wounded, and scenes of horror at thought of which my blood curdles.  They have fallen upon us, not upon them.”