Robert knew how bitter the defeat would be to St. Luc, but the
knowledge did not keep his exultation from mounting to a high pitch.
St. Luc might strive with all his might to keep his men in the battle,
but the Frenchmen could not be numerous, and it was the custom of
Indians, once a combat seemed lost, to melt away like a mist. They
believed thoroughly that it was best to run away and fight another
day, and there was no disgrace in escaping from a stricken field.
"They run! They run! And the Frenchmen must run with them!" exclaimed
Black Rifle. As he spoke, a bullet grazed his side and struck a
soldier behind him, but the force pressed on with the ardor fed by
victory. Willet did not try any longer to restrain them, although he
understood full well the danger of a battle in the dark. But he knew
that Daganoweda and his Mohawks, experienced in every forest wile,
would guard them against surprise, and he deemed it best now that they
should strike with all their might.
Robert seldom saw any of the warriors before him, and he did not once
catch a glimpse of a Frenchman. Whenever his rifle was loaded he
fired at a flitting form, never knowing whether or not his bullet
struck true, and glad of his ignorance.
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