The lacrosse match proceeded all the same, though M. Rouget had withdrawn the patronage of his presence. The interest felt in the second game was greater than that in the first. Every one with money to stake was on the _qui vive_; the chances were considered even now, whereas in the first innings, every one believed in Caughnawaga, and odds had to be given to tempt the few down-hearted Upper Canadians to back Brautford. The second game ended like the first, to the general surprise, and again Brautford's success was largely due to the clever stripling, who, bounding about the field as nimbly as the ball itself, was always where he was most wanted, and calmly did the best thing to do at the time. "Who is the little one?" was asked on every hand; but no one was ready with an answer other than the obvious one, "Injun, like the rest," till a squaw--one of the many who circulated among the crowd, brown as horse chestnuts, with little beads of eyes and broad flat faces, arrayed in moccasins and blankets, yellow, red, and blue, selling bark and bead work--vouchsafed the laconic information, "name Paul." The third game was longer and more obstinately contested than either of its predecessors. Caughnawaga braced itself for a supreme effort, under the reproaches of its backers and the taunts of the very squaws. The best of five were to take the stakes. If Brautford won this third, the match was over, and Caughnawaga "knocked into a cocked hat." The players fought their most strenuous on either side, with tight set teeth and wicked-looking eyes, which boded ill for joint or limb which should happen within the swing of a lacrosse. Caughnawaga was desperate, following up its capture of the ball with a compact rush, and interposing their wiry bodies recklessly between it and the uplifted sticks of the other side. Rushing and scuffling, they had carried it nearly to their goal, another lick, and the game were won; when, in front, there leaped the redoubtable Paul, scooped it up on his netting, and threw it back over their heads. It was done in a moment, while yet the rush and impetus were unstemmed; an instant later and he was stumbled upon and run down by his eager opponents, trampled on and stunned, before they could stay themselves in their rush. They tripped over him and fell in a heap, while the Brautford men caught the ball in the undefended middle and had little opposition in carrying it to the other goal. "Brautford! Hurrah for Brautford!" The Caughnawaga's heard the shout while they were still disentangling and picking themselves up, a defeated band. They picked themselves up and slunk away like cats, that, raiding a dairy, are suddenly drenched and discomfited by an ambushed milker. Only Paul was left on the ground, stunned and unable to rise.