Sick and faint at the disgusting sight, the young man rested his elbow on the railing that passed along the edge of the bridge, and, leaning his head on his hand for a moment, forgot the risk of exposure he incurred, in the intenseness of the sorrow that assailed his soul.  His heart and imagination were already far from the spot on which he stood, when he felt an iron hand upon his shoulder.  He turned, shuddering with an instinctive knowledge of his yet unseen visitant, and beheld standing over him the terrible warrior of the Fleur de lis.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the savage in a low triumphant tone, “the place of our meeting is well timed, though somewhat singular, it must be confessed.  Nay,” he fiercely added, grasping as in a vice the arm that was already lifted to strike him, “force me not to annihilate you on the spot.  Ha! hear you the cry of my wolf-dog?” as that animal now set up a low but fearful howl; “it is for your blood he asks, but your hour is not yet come.”

“No, by Heaven, is it not!” exclaimed a voice; a rapid and rushing sweep was heard through the air for an instant, and then a report like a stunning blow.  The warrior released his grasp—­placed his hand upon his tomahawk, but without strength to remove it from his belt tottered a pace or two backwards—­and then fell, uttering a cry of mingled pain and disappointment, at his length upon the earth.

“Quick, quick to our cover!” exclaimed the younger officer, as a loud shout was now heard from the forest in reply to the yell of the fallen warrior.  “If Francois come not, we are lost; the howl of that wolf-dog alone will betray us, even if his master should be beyond all chance of recovery.”

“Desperate diseases require desperate remedies,” was the reply; “there is little glory in destroying a helpless enemy, but the necessity is urgent, and we must leave nothing to chance.”  As he spoke, he knelt upon the huge form of the senseless warrior, whose scalping knife he drew from its sheath, and striking a firm and steady blow, quitted not the weapon until he felt his hand reposing on the chest of his enemy.

The howl of the wolf-dog, whose eyes glared like two burning coals through the surrounding gloom, was now exchanged to a fierce and snappish bark.  He made a leap at the officer while in the act of rising from the body; but his fangs fastened only in the chest of the shaggy coat, which he wrung with the strength and fury characteristic of his peculiar species.  This new and ferocious attack was fraught with danger little inferior to that which they had just escaped, and required the utmost promptitude of action.  The young man seized the brute behind the neck in a firm and vigorous grasp, while he stooped upon the motionless form over which this novel struggle was maintained, and succeeded in making himself once more master of the scalping knife.  Half choked by the hand that unflinchingly grappled with him, the savage animal quitted his hold and struggled violently