rsuing, and as he neared
the edge of the forest, turned and looked back. From the high ground
where he stood he could see the butchery, the fury of the conquerors,
the agonized gestures of the victims. He turned again in horror, and
plunged into the woods. As he tore his way through the briers and
thickets, he met several fugitives, escaped like himself. Others
presently came up, haggard and wild, like men broke loose from the jaws
of fate. They gathered and consulted together. One of them, in great
repute for his knowledge of the Bible, was for returning and
surrendering to the Spaniards. "They are men," he said; "perhaps when
their fury is over they will spare our lives, and even if they kill us,
it will only be a few moments' pain. Better so than to starve here in
the woods or be torn to pieces by wild beasts."

The greater part of the naked and despairing company assented, but
Challeux was of a different mind. The old Huguenot quoted Scripture, and
called up the names of prophets and apostles to witness, that, in direst
extremity, God would not abandon those who rested their faith in Him.
Six of the fugitives, however, still held to their desperate purpose.
Issuing from the woods, they descended towards the fort, and as with
beating hearts their comrades watched the result, a troop of Spaniards
rushed forth, hewed them down with swords and halberds, and dragged
their bodies to the brink of the river, where the victims of the
massacre were already flung in heaps.

Le Moyne, with a soldier named Grandchemin, whom he had met in his
flight, toiled all day through the woods, in the hope of reaching the
small vessels anchored behind the bar. Night found them in a morass. No
vessels could be seen, and the soldier, in despair, broke into angry
upbraidings against his companion,--saying that he would go back and
give himself up. Le Moyne at first opposed him, then yielded. But when
they drew near the fort, and heard the howl of savage revelry that rose
from within, the artist's heart failed him. He embraced his companion,
and the soldier advanced alone. A party of Spaniards came out to meet
him. He kneeled, and begged for his life. He was answered by a
death-blow; and the horrified Le Moyne, from his hiding-place in the
thickets, saw his limbs hacked apart, thrust on pikes, and borne off in
triumph.

Meanwhile, Menendez, mustering his followers, had offered thanks to God
for their victory; and this pious butcher wept with