them.

In his eagerness he passed ahead of Willet and Tayoga and came very
near to St. Luc's retreating line. His foot became entangled in
trailing vines and he fell, but he was up in an instant, and he fired
at a shadowy figure not more than twenty feet in advance. In his haste
he missed, and the figure, turning, raised a rifle. There was a fair
moonlight and Robert saw the muzzle of the weapon bearing directly
upon him, and he knew too that the rifle was held by firm hands. His
vivid and sensitive imagination at once leaped into intense life. His
own weapon was empty and his last moment had come. He saw the strong
brown hands holding the rifle, and then his gaze passed on to the face
of St. Luc. He saw the blue eyes of the Frenchman, as they looked down
the sights, open wide in a kind of horror. Then he abruptly dropped
the muzzle, waved one hand to Robert, and vanished in the thickets and
the darkness.

The battle was over. There were a few dying shots, scattered beads of
flame, an occasional shout of triumph from the Mohawks, a defiant yell
or two in reply from the Hurons and the Abenakis, and then the trail
of the combat swept out of the sight and hearing of Robert, who stood
dazed and yet with a heart full of gratitude. St. Luc had held his
life upon the pressure of a trigger, and the trigger would have been
pulled had he not seen before it was too late who stood before the
muzzle of his rifle. The moonlight was enough for Robert to see that
look of horror in his eyes when he recognized the target. And then the
weapon had been turned away and he had gone like a flash! Why? For
what reason had St. Luc spared him in the heat and fury of a desperate
and losing battle? It must have been a powerful motive for a man to
stay his bullet at such a time!