"Oh, these nobles!"
"Well?" Natah Otann asked him.
"He refuses," he answered quickly.
"I was sure of it. Now it is our turn."
Raising to his lips his war whistle, he produced a shrill and lengthened sound, to which the Indians responded with a frightful yell, and rushed like a legion of demons on the three men, who received them without yielding an inch. The mêlée recommenced in all its fury; the three men clubbed their rifles, and dealt crushing blows around. Ivon performed prodigies of valour, rising and sinking his rifle with the regularity of a pendulum, smashing a man at every blow, and muttering,—
"Ouf, there's another: holy Virgin, I feel my terror coming upon me."
Still the circle drew closer round the three men; others took the places of the Indians who fell, and were in their turn pushed onward by those behind. The hunters were weary of striking. Their arms did not fall with the same vigour; their blows failed in regularity; the blood rose to their heads; their eyes were injected with blood, and they had a dizziness in their ears.
"We are lost!" the Count muttered.
"Courage!" Bright-eye yelled, as he smashed in the skull of an Indian.
"It is not courage that fails me, but strength," the young man answered, in a fainting voice.