Lieutenant Fred Godfrey expected such a reception from Jake Golcher as would give him a suitable excuse for opening fire on the Tory and the Senecas, but the panic of the leader disarmed his enmity, and really forced the arrangement that was now carried out; one that, it may be said, was intensely disagreeable to Dick Durkee and his comrades, who were unwilling to spare such miscreants.

But the lieutenant was the commander, and there was no rebellion against his orders.

"Bring your warriors up here," ordered Fred, and Golcher made a sign for the Senecas to approach.

They moved forward a few paces, but, mistrusting the purposes of the patriots, refused to come further. Golcher berated, and ordered them to advance, telling them—what they already knew—they were covered by the guns of the whites.

But they stood sullenly apart, and began moving in the direction of the river.

At this moment Dick Durkee called out:

"Lieutenant, shall we fire? We've got every wretch of 'em fast."

"Keep them covered, but don't shoot unless they raise their guns," called Fred, who was embarrassed by the unexpected turn.

"May I go with 'em?" asked Jake Golcher, in a cringing voice, beginning to back away from his dreaded master.

"Yes, go; and I pray Heaven none of us may ever look on your face again."

Fred should have been prepared for what followed, inasmuch as no one understood the treacherous nature of Tory and Indian better than he, but, as we have intimated, he was confronted by an unexpected condition of affairs, and was caught off his guard, so to speak.

He saw the warriors withdrawing, and already entering the wood on his left, while he stood in the full light of the camp-fire, calmly watching the movement.

"Fred, move away from there," called out his father; "you are too good a mark for them."

Fortunately, the young man stepped back and to one side, placing himself near Dick Durkee, who stood with cocked rifle, fairly quivering with rage, because he was forced to hold his fire.

Fred himself had his pistol at command, but he was without any rifle, having handed his over to one of his friends, when he went forward with Habakkuk McEwen.

The Indians were in the fringe of the wood, when all the former prisoners, who were sitting on the fallen tree, sprang up, and began moving away.

At this juncture one of Durkee's men shouted:

"Look out! They're going to shoot!"

The words were yet in his mouth, when Jake Golcher, with unparalleled treachery, raised the gun that he had caught from one of the Senecas, and aimed directly at Maggie Brainerd.

His position was such that only her father understood his purpose, and he sprang forward to shield his daughter, throwing himself before her at the very moment the Tory discharged his gun.

With a groan of pain, the brave parent staggered a few steps and fell heavily to the ground.

"Just as I expected," exclaimed Dick Durkee. "Give it to 'em, boys! Don't spare one!"

With incredible celerity the Iroquois fired their guns almost simultaneously with the Tory, and then darted off like so many shadows through the wood, the dim morning light being insufficient to betray them in the thick undergrowth.

But Dick Durkee and his men returned the volley instantly, and sprang after them.

Fred Godfrey had not noticed the fall of his father, but, with his whole soul aflame at the outrage, he dashed toward the wretches, pistol in hand, determined to wreak vengeance on the party, who, he well knew, were inspired to the deed by Golcher himself.

On the edge of the wood, where the Senecas had stood for a single moment when they fired their guns, two of their number were stretched lifeless, proving that the return volley had done some execution.

The settlers charged through the undergrowth without any regard to order and the peril into which they might precipitate themselves.

Had Gray Panther and his warriors appeared on the ground at that crisis, in all probability he would have drawn the entire party into ambush, and cut them off to a man.

But the fleeing force was too small to attempt a stand, or any such tactics, and they devoted themselves entirely to getting away.

They were more expert in this than their pursuers, and scattering—as is the custom of the red men to this day, when closely pressed—each used all his energy and cunning in flight.

Dick Durkee and his men, including Fred Godfrey, went crashing and tearing ahead, glaring in front and to the right and left in quest of a target, but finding none, until, when the blind pursuit had lasted fifteen minutes or more, it dawned on those concerned that it was idle to attempt anything more.

Then they stopped for breath, and, turning about, began straggling back toward camp.

Fred Godfrey would have been the last to rejoin his friends had he not been seized with a dread that something might go wrong with those who were left defenseless.

He therefore hastened, and in the gray light of the morning came upon a scene of sadness.

Richard Brainerd, his step-father, lay on his back, with his head in the lap of Maggie, while Eva was weeping over him, and Aunt Peggy was standing beside them, her face streaming with tears.

Gravity Gimp was rolling on the ground in an agony of sorrow, for he saw what was apparent to the young man—the loved father and master was dying.

Fred knelt by his side, and taking a whisky flask from the rough but kind-hearted Dick Durkee, pressed it to the white lips of the sufferer.

"It's no use, Fred," said he, with a sad smile; "I'm done for. Jake Golcher fired that shot, but he meant it for Maggie, and not for me. I'm close to death."

"I hope it isn't as bad as that," said Fred, through his tears, his manner showing he could not believe his own words.

"It's as well that I should go," said the old man, rallying slightly; "and I'm thankful that the rest of you escaped. Good-bye, Fred."

The youth took the hand that was already growing clammy and limp, and, returning the pressure, could only murmur:

"Good-bye, good bye; would that it had been I, rather than such a noble father as you have always been to me."

Gravity Gimp, rousing to a sense of the situation, rushed forward with irrestrainable grief, and shook the hand of his master, bending over and kissing his forehead.

Aunt Peggy did the same, and then came the last, sad parting scene between the father and his loved daughters.

The murmured words were heard only by Maggie and Eva, who treasured them up in after-years as the most precious mementos of their lives.

When the mild, loving eyes of the parent gradually grew dim, they rested upon the tearful faces of the two girls; and, as he entered the land of shadows, his last memory of the world he left behind was illumined by those two yearning countenances, whose kisses were pressed upon his lips. And the dark angel, reaching out his hand, took that of the patriot, and led him through the shadowy valley into the bright realms beyond.