“St. Ann!” he cried exultantly. “’Tis a good fight so far––would you have more of it?”
“Hold!” broke in a French voice from out the darkness. “What means this? Are you of white blood?”
“I have always supposed so.”
“A renegade consorting with devils of the Iroquois?”
“Mon Dieu! No! an officer of Fort St. Louis.”
I could see the white man thrust aside the Indian circle, and strike through. His face was invisible, although I was upon my knees now, but he was a short, heavily built fellow.
“Stand back! ay, make room. Saint Guise, we are fighting our own friends. If you are of the garrison name yourself.”
De Artigny, still clasping his rifle barrel, reached out his other hand, and lifted me to my feet.
“Perchance,” he said coolly, “if I were a stickler for etiquette, I might ask you first for some explanation 369 of this attack. However, we have made some heads ring, so I waive that privilege. I am the Sieur de Artigny, a lieutenant of La Salle’s.”
“Mon Dieu!” the other stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “’Tis no unknown name to me, although we have never before met by some chance––I am Francois de la Forest.”