I enjoyed little space in which to glance behind where I knew Eloise crouched beneath the protecting shadow of the great stone, yet I am certain I felt the full magic of her eyes upon me.  As I wheeled, newly armed for strife, my hands clutched hard about the rifle-barrel, our fierce assailants came surging up against the stone wall.  It was no time to note what others did; one realizes little at such a supreme moment except the flashing in his eyes where menacing weapons play across his front; the swift blows continually threatening to crush his guard; the fierce, cruel faces glaring at him eye to eye, and his own desperate efforts to drive and kill.  It all abides in fevered memory not unlike those pictures of horror coming of a dark night when lightning leaps from the black void.  I mind the first man to reach me, a burly ruffian, whose shining spear-point missed my throat by so narrow a margin it tasted blood ere my rifle-stock crushed the side of his head and sent him backward, a reeling corpse into the mass at his heels.  Then all was confusion, a riot of leaping figures, frantic shouting, and clanging weapons, and I know not what was done, except that I struck out like a crazed man, heedless of what might be aimed at me, but letting drive at every savage head within range, until, at last, there seemed no others in my front.  Then, as I paused, breathless and uncertain, passing my hand across my eyes to clear them from the blood and hair which half blinded me, I heard De Noyan’s drawling tone.

“Most beautifully done, Master Benteen, and as for our red-headed preacher, by the memory of Jeanne d’Arc, the like of him as fighting man I have never seen.”

I leaned back heavily against the stones, now the strain of battle had relaxed, feeling strangely weakened by my exertions as well as the loss of blood, and glanced about me.  The discomfited savages had fallen sullenly back to the bank of the stream, where they bunched together as if in council, and I noted more than one wounded man among them.  De Noyan sat recklessly upon the stone wall, dangling his long legs, and, back turned contemptuously upon our foe, was carefully examining the edge of his sword.

“I was fool enough to attempt a down cut,” he explained, observing my eyes upon him.  “I tried it on that savage who lies yonder, and it was rather a neat stroke, yet has sorely nicked the blade.”

“Where is the Puritan?” I asked, not seeing him.

“Stretched yonder at rest; he did needlessly exhaust himself, not knowing how best to wield his weapon. Sacre! he struck hard blows, and will have two savages for whom to make answer in the Day of Judgment.”

“What loss did the fellows sustain?” I questioned, the cut at the edge of my hair half blinding me with dripping blood.

“We dropped seven between us, counting those who fell to your fire, and there are others who hardly appear in condition for further fighting.  As to the garrison, you seem to possess a flesh wound or two, the head of the Puritan rings merrily yet from the tap of a war-club, while I boast a boot full of blood; ’tis none of it serious.”