“I can see nothing,” I confessed regretfully, “yet you have no difficulty.”
“’Tis a woodsman’s training. I have followed many a dim trail in dark forests, and this is so plain I could keep to it on a run if necessary. Ah! the fort is awake and vigilant––that was rifle fire.”
I had not only heard the sharp reports, but seen the flash of fire cleaving the darkness.
“The discharges came from the woods yonder––they were Indian guns, Monsieur. See! those two last were from the stockade; I could perceive the logs in the flare.”
“Ay, and that is all; the lads will waste no ammunition in the gloom, except to tell the savages they are awake and ready.”
“How far have we traveled, Monsieur?”
“A mile, perhaps. At the crooked oak yonder we leave the stream. You met with no harm when you fell?”
“No more than a bruise. I can go on now.”
We turned to the right, and plunged into the thicket, the way now so black that I grasped his jacket in fear of becoming lost. We were clambering up a slight hill, careless of everything but our footing, when there was a sudden rustling of the low branches on either side our path. De Artigny stopped, thrusting me back, while at that very instant, indistinct forms seemed to leap forth from the covert. It occurred so quickly, so silently, that before I even realized danger, he was struggling madly with the assailants. I heard the crash of blows, an oath of surprise, a guttural exclamation, a groan of pain. Hands gripped me savagely; I felt naked bodies, struggled wildly to escape, but was flung helplessly to the ground, a hand grasping my hair. I could see nothing only a confused mass of legs and arms, but De Artigny was still on his feet, struggling desperately. From some hand he had grabbed a rifle, and swung it crashing into the faces of those grappling him. Back he came step by step, 368 fighting like a fiend, until he stood over me. With one wide sweep of his clutched weapon he struck me free, a blow which shattered the gun stock, and left him armed only with the iron bar. But the battle fury was on him; dimly I could see him towering above me, bareheaded, his clothes torn to rags, the grim barrel poised for a blow.