The mêlée recommenced, more ardently and implacable than before. The Indians rushed about in every direction, throwing torches on the roofs, which immediately caught fire. The Major saw that victory was hopeless, and tried to effect his retreat. But that was not so easy; there was no chance of climbing over the palisades; the only prospect was the gate; but before that gate, the Blackfeet, skilfully posted, repulsed with their lances those who tried to escape by it. Still there was no alternative. The Major rallied his men for a final effort, and rushed with incredible fury on the enemy, with the hope of cutting his way through.
The collision was horrible—it was not a battle, but a butchery; foot to foot, chest against chest—in which the men seized each other round the waist, killed each other with knives, or tore the foe with teeth and nails: those who fell did not rise again—the wounded were finished at once. This frightful carnage lasted about a quarter of an hour; two-thirds of the Americans succumbed; the rest managed to force a passage and fled, closely pursued by the Indians, who then commenced a horrible manhunt. Never, until this day, had the Redskins fought the Whites with such fury and tenacity. The presence among them of the Count, disarmed and smiling, who, although rushing into the thickest of the contest by the side of the Chief, appeared invulnerable, electrified them, and they really believed that Natah Otann had told them the truth—and that the Count was that Motecuhzoma they had waited so long, and whose presence would restore them for ever that liberty which the White men had torn from them. Thus they had kept their eyes constantly fixed on the young man, saluting him with noisy shouts of joy, and redoubling their efforts to secure the victory. Natah Otann rushed toward the American flag, tore it down, and wound it over his head.
"Victory—victory!" he shouted, joyfully.
The Blackfeet responded to this cry with yells, and spread in every direction to begin plundering. A few men still remained in the fort, among them being the Major, who did not wish to survive his defeat. The Indians, rushed upon him with loud yells, to massacre him, but the veteran remained calm, and did not offer to defend himself.
"Stay!" the Count shouted; and turning to Natah Otann, said,—"Will you let this brave soldier be assassinated in cold blood?"
"No," the Sachem answered, "if he consents to surrender his sword to me."
"Never!" the old gentleman said, with energy, as he broke across his knee his weapon, blood-stained to the hilt, threw the pieces at the Chief's feet, and, crossing his arms, he regarded his victor with supreme contempt, as he said—
"Kill me now; I can no longer defend myself."
"Bravo!" the Count exclaimed; and, not calculating the consequences of the deed, he went up to the Major, and cordially pressed his hand. Natah Otann regarded the two for an instant with an indefinable expression.
"Oh!" he muttered to himself, with sorrow; "we may beat them, but we shall never conquer them: these men are stronger than we; they are born to be our masters."