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!
"Wake up, lad! Wake up! The battle has been won!"
Willet's heavy but friendly hand fell upon his shoulder, and Robert
came out of his daze. He decided at once that he would say nothing
about the meeting with St. Luc, and merely remarked in a cryptic
manner:
"I was stunned for a moment by a bullet that did not hit me.
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