oft mound, now wrestling
on the harder ground below. At last Menard, as they whirled and
tumbled past the weapons, snatched the knife. Tegakwita caught his
wrist, and then it was nigh to stabbing his own thigh as they fought
for it. Once he twisted his hand and savagely buried the blade in the
Indian's side. Tegakwita caught his breath and rallied, and the blood
of the one was on them both. At last a quick wrench bent the Indian's
wrist back until it almost snapped,--Menard thought that it had,--and
the stained blade went home once, and again, and again, until the arms
that had clung madly about the white man slipped off, and lay weakly
on the ground.

Menard was exhausted. The dirt and blood were in his hair and eyes and
ears. He was rising stiffly to his knees when the rush of Indians came
from the bushes. He could not see them clearly,--could hardly hear
them,--though he fought until a musket-stock swung against his head
and stretched him on the ground.

When he recovered they were standing about him, half a score of them,
waiting to see if he still had life. He raised a bruised arm to wipe
his eyes, but a rough hand caught it and drew a thong tightly about
his wrists. Slowly his senses awakened, and he could see indistinctly
the silent forms,--some standing motionless, others walking slowly
about. It was strange. His aching head had not the wit to meet with
the situation. Then they jerked him to his feet, and with a stout
brave at each elbow and others crowding about on every side, he was
dragged off through the bushes.

For a long time the silent party pushed forward. They were soon clear
of the forest, passing through rich wild meadows that lifted the scent
of clover, the fresher for the dew that lay wet underfoot. There were
other thickets and other forests, and many a reach of meadow, all
rolling up and down over the gentle hills. Menard tried to gather his
wits, but his head reeled; and the struggle to keep his feet moving
steadily onward was enough to hold his mind. He knew that he should
watch the trail closely, to know where they were taking him, but he
was not equal to the effort. At last the dawn came, gray and
depressing, creeping with deadly slowness on the trail of the
retreating night. The sky was dull and heavy, and a mist clung about
the party, leaving little beads of moisture on deerskin coats and
fringed leggings and long, brown musket barrels. The branches drooped
from the trees, blurred by th