Let us die like men, with our faces and not our backs to the foe!" "Come then!" cried Fritz, upon whom had fallen one of those strange bursts of desperate fury which give a man whilst it lasts the strength of ten.
With a wild bound he sprang forward, bursting through the ranks of Indians like the track of a whirlwind, scattering them right and left, hewing, hacking, cutting! Roche was just behind or at his side; the two seemed invulnerable, irresistible, possessed of some supernatural strength.

The Indians in amaze gave way right and left, and turned their attention to the flying men, who were easier to deal with than this strange couple.
A shout went up that the devil was abroad, and the Indian, ever superstitious, shrank away from these stalwart figures, believing them to be denizens from some other world; whilst the French soldiers, who might have felt very differently, had not yet so far equipped themselves as to be ready to come out from their lines.
Fritz had marked his line with care.

Only upon one small section between lake and forest was there any possible passage without peril from the French lines, and that was by skirting the head of the lake just where their own intrenched camp, now almost in ruins, gave them shelter.
The woodsman's and the Ranger's instinct kept true within him even in the confusion and darkness.

He never deflected from his line.
"This way! this way!" he called to Roche in smothered tones, as they heard the sound of the fight growing fainter behind them.

He took the lad's hand, and plunged into the marshy hollow.