He sprung erect, and darted from the murderer, toward the spot where he had left Effie St. Pierre.
He had recognized the report of his rifle.
He found the brave girl driving a ball home with the calmness of a brave man, and she smiled faintly as she looked up into his face.
“There’s one Ottawa less, Mark,” she said. “By stepping into the moonlight and displaying a directed rifle, I have kept the red-skins at bay in mid-stream, where they can touch ground; and until a moment since, they have been afraid to advance. Then one taunted his companions, said that the white girl’s arms shook like leaves, and stepped forward. Ah! Mark, he’ll never fight again. See! down-stream, the demons look like buoys.”
“Come girl, we leave the island.”
“What, Mark, a boat?”
“My boat, Effie. Ha! look yonder! They’re going to flank us.”
He pointed up the river to a spot from whence a number of British soldiers were springing into the water, to act in concert with St. Pierre and their red allies, by flanking the island.
Instantly Effie turned the spy’s rifle upon the scarlet coats.
“No, Effie, they’re the king’s soldiers,” said Mark, gently taking possession of the weapon. “We’re not at war with England, and the death of a Briton by our hands might be mourned by a thousand homes. Come, we’ll defeat them yet.”