A bullet grazed Robert's head, cutting off two locks of hair very neatly.

Its passage took his breath for a moment or two, and gave him a shock, but he recovered quickly, and, still controlling his impulse to pull trigger in haste, looked for something at which to aim.
The fog had not lifted at all, but by gazing into its heart a long time, Robert was able to see a little distance.

Now and then the figure of an enemy, as he leaped from the shelter of one stump to another, was outlined dimly, but invariably there was not enough time for a shot.

Soon he made out a large stump not very far ahead of him, and he saw the flash of a rifle from it.

He caught a glimpse only of the hands that held the weapon, but he believed them to be a white man's hands and he believed also that the man behind the stump was one of the best French sharpshooters.
Robert resolved to bring down the Frenchman, who presently, when firing once more, might then expose enough of himself for a target.