Then he abruptly dropped the muzzle, waved one hand to Robert, and vanished in the thickets and the darkness.
The battle was over.

There were a few dying shots, scattered beads of flame, an occasional shout of triumph from the Mohawks, a defiant yell or two in reply from the Hurons and the Abenakis, and then the trail of the combat swept out of the sight and hearing of Robert, who stood dazed and yet with a heart full of gratitude.

St.Luc had held his life upon the pressure of a trigger, and the trigger would have been pulled had he not seen before it was too late who stood before the muzzle of his rifle.

The moonlight was enough for Robert to see that look of horror in his eyes when he recognized the target.

And then the weapon had been turned away and he had gone like a flash! Why?
For what reason had St.Luc spared him in the heat and fury of a desperate and losing battle?
It must have been a powerful motive for a man to stay his bullet at such a time! "Wake up, lad! Wake up! The battle has been won!" Willet's heavy but friendly hand fell upon his shoulder, and Robert came out of his daze.