It was his first campaign, and already his eyes shone and his nostrils twitched with the same lust for murder which burned within his elder.

So they advanced, silent, terrible, creeping out of the shadows of the wood, as their race had come out of the shadows of history, with bodies of iron and tiger souls.
They were just abreast of the bush when something caught the eye of the younger warrior, some displaced twig or fluttering leaf, and he paused with suspicion in every feature.

Another instant and he had warned his companion, but Du Lhut sprang out and buried his little hatchet in the skull of the older warrior.

De Catinat heard a dull crash, as when an axe splinters its way into a rotten tree, and the man fell like a log, laughing horribly, and kicking and striking with his powerful limbs.
The younger warrior sprang like a deer over his fallen comrade and dashed on into the wood, but an instant later there was a gunshot among the trees in front, followed by a faint wailing cry.
"That is his death-whoop," said Du Lhut composedly.

"It was a pity to fire, and yet it was better than letting him go." As he spoke the two others came back, Ephraim ramming a fresh charge into his musket.
"Who was laughing ?" asked Amos.
"It was he," said Du Lhut, nodding towards the dying warrior, who lay with his head in a horrible puddle, and his grotesque features contorted into a fixed smile.