It was an impulse coming chiefly from the words of Tayoga, but Robert threw himself flat in the boat and the keen weapon whistled through the empty air.

He sprang up almost instantly, and, not having time to draw either hatchet or knife, struck with his clenched fist at the dark face glaring over the side of the boat.

It was a convulsive effort, and the fist was driven home with more than natural power.

The figure disappeared like a stone dropped into the water.
Despite the dusk, Robert had seen the countenance, and he recognized the sinister features of the French spy whom they had tried to catch in Albany, the man whose name he had no doubt was Achille Garay.

He had felt a fierce joy when his fist came into contact with his face, but he was quite sure the spy had not perished.