He too flung away his gun, and uttered a frantic yell of terror, plunging headlong into the wood without a thought save flight.
"It is he! it is he! it is he!" This was the shout which rang from the lips of Charles as he dashed after the retreating figure.

All was confusion now amid French and Rangers alike; that awful yell, and something in the appearance of Charles, had startled friend and foe alike.
There were several of the French soldiers left dead in the wood, and one was captured and made prisoner; but the rest had fled like men demented, and the Rangers could not come up with them.

As for Charles and his quarry, they had disappeared, and it was long before any trace could be found of them.
Stark and Fritz, however, would not give up the search, and at last they came upon the prostrate form of Charles.

He lay face downwards on the frozen ground, which was deeply stained with blood.

His wrist was fearfully gashed by some knife; yet in his fingers he held still a piece of cloth from the coat of the French fugitive.
It had been literally torn out of his grasp before the man could get free, and he had nearly hacked off the left hand of the hapless Charles.
Yet the man had made good his escape, leaving Charles well nigh dead from loss of blood.