He looked down at Jack's pale, death-like face. He called him by name, but no answer came, and he feared that his comrade was dead. The blood was flowing freely from his own wounds, and he felt himself getting weaker and weaker.
He was reeling now from sheer weakness and loss of blood. He could hardly hold his musket. This, then, was to be the end of it all. Deserted by the French voyageurs, to be killed and scalped by the cruel Iroquois.
"Never mind! We will die together," he mumbled to himself, "fighting to the last."
The Indians were returning now from the capture of the canoe. He could see a dozen or more gesticulating forms, dancing in frenzy before him. He could do no more. He was falling--falling--such a long way it seemed to the ground. Then he felt the sharp steel of an Indian knife cutting into his flesh, as it was hurled at him from a distance.
He felt some one clutch his scalp-lock, but he was unable to resist. He had become unconscious and oblivious of all these things. He seemed to be in another land where, instead of the dark forest with its interminable tangle and endless dangers, he roamed with Jamie beside a broken stream, where the red-spotted trout leapt in a sunlit burn, the music of whose waters charmed and soothed his tired and weary spirit.
"Stay! He is the paleface brother of the White Eagle," said a voice that broke his sub-conscious reverie; and at these words Jack opened his eyes for an instant and looked into the face of a mighty warrior whose plumed eagle crest and haughty features seemed strangely familiar.
CHAPTER IX
THE WHITE EAGLE OF THE IROQUOIS
The Indian who had raised his scalping-knife drew back, and a plumed and painted chieftain stepped forward. It was none other than the renowned "White Eagle"--the greatest chief amongst the Six Nations. The same daring and unconquered spirit who had made his escape from the frigate, as she lay anchored in the river below Quebec.
"Stay! Let me see the young palefaces, who do not run like the hares," he commanded.