an Indian rush at Colonel
Washington with raised tomahawk. Washington raised his pistol, coolly
took aim, and pulled the trigger, but the powder flashed and did not
explode. With the sweat starting from my forehead, I dashed some powder
into the pan of my pistol, jerked it up, and fired. Ah, Captain Paul, how
I blessed your lessons in that moment! for the ball went true, and the
Indian rolled in the mud almost at Washington's feet. They had had
enough, and those who were still alive leaped the trench and disappeared
into the outer darkness.

"They won't try that again," I remarked to Peyronie, who was sitting
against the breastwork. "But what is it, man? Are you wounded?" I cried,
seeing that he was very pale and held both hands to his breast.

"Yes, I am hit here," he answered, and added, as I fell on my knees
beside him and began to tear the clothing from the wound, "but do not
distress yourself, Stewart. I can be attended after the battle is won."

"Nonsense," I said. "You shall be attended at once." He smiled up at me,
and then went suddenly white and fell against my shoulder. I tore away
his shirt, and saw that blood was welling from a wound in the breast. I
propped him against the wall, and ordering one of the men to go for
Doctor Craik, stanched the blood as well as I could. The doctor hastened
to us so soon as he could leave his other wounded, but he shook his head
gravely when he saw Peyronie's injury.

"A bad case," he said. "Clear into the lungs, I think. But I have seen
men recover of worse hurts," he added, seeing how pale I was.

I watched him as he bound up the wound with deft fingers, and then
between us we carried him to the little cabin, which had been converted
from magazine to hospital, and was already crowded from wall to wall. It
was with a sore heart that I left him and returned to the breastwork, for
I had come to love Peyronie dearly. The event was not so serious as I
then feared, for, after a gallant fight for life, he won the battle,
recovered of his wound, and lived to do service in another war.

The repulse of the Indians seemed to have disheartened the enemy, for
their fire slackened until only a shot now and then broke the stillness
of the night. Our condition was desperate as it could well be, yet I
heard no word of surrender. I was sitting listlessly, thinking of
Peyronie's wound, when a whisper ran along the lines that the French were
sending a flag of truce. Sure enough, we could