oyances. He directed his course boldly now for the
stepping stones, and traveled fast. Soon the first of them would be less
than a hundred yards away.

But the incident was not over. Wary and skillful though the young forest
runner might be, he had made one miscalculation, and it led to great
consequences. As he skirted the edge of the swamp in the darkness, now
fully come, a dusky figure suddenly appeared. It was a stray warrior
from some small band, wandering about at will. The meeting was probably
as little expected by him as it was by Henry, and they were so close
together when they saw each other that neither had time to raise his
rifle. The warrior, a tall, powerful man, dropping his gun and snatching
out a knife, sprang at once upon his enemy.

Henry was borne back by the weight and impact, but, making an immense
effort, he recovered himself and, seizing the wrist of the Indian's
knife hand, exerted all his great strength. The warrior wished to change
the weapon from his right band, but he dared not let go with the other
lest he be thrown down at once, and with great violence. His first
rush having failed, he was now at a disadvantage, as the Indian is not
generally a wrestler. Henry pushed him back, and his hand closed tighter
and tighter around the red wrist. He wished to tear the knife from it,
but he, too, was afraid to let go with the other hand, and so the two
remained locked fast. Neither uttered a cry after the first contact, and
the only sounds in the dark were their hard breathing, which turned to a
gasp now and then, and the shuffle of their feet over the earth.

Henry felt that it must end soon. One or the other must give way. Their
sinews were already strained to the cracking point, and making a supreme
effort he bore all his weight upon the warrior, who, unable to sustain
himself, went down with the youth upon him. The Indian uttered a groan,
and Henry, leaping instantly to his feet, looked down upon his fallen
antagonist, who did not stir. He knew the cause. As they fell the point
of the knife bad been turned upward, and it had entered the Indian's
heart.

Although he had been in peril at his hands, Henry looked at the slain
man in a sort of pity. He had not wished to take anyone's life, and, in
reality, he had not been the direct cause of it. But it was a stern time
and the feeling soon passed. The Wyandot, for such he was by his paint,
would never have felt a particle of remorse had the victor