I pointed to Ensign Ronan, who, though mortally wounded and nearly down, was still fighting with desperation on one knee. "Look at that man," said I; "at least he dies like a soldier." "Yes," replied the unfortunate man, with a gasp, "but he has no terrors of the future. He is an unbeliever." When we read this remarkable dialogue--remarkable as occurring amid the rattle of musketry on a battle-field where the narrators' friends were perishing in a hopeless struggle with an overpowering force of savage foes--we remember that Mrs. Kinzie's book did not assume to be history; was not written as a grave and literal record of things as they were; a statement carefully scrutinized to see that no unjust slur is cast upon any character, even so unimportant a one as the poor wounded, dying surgeon. Mrs. Helm, on the dreadful day, was a mere girl-wife of seventeen years, and was a woman of thirty-seven when Mrs. Kinzie transcribed the artless tale into Wau-Bun, a book which reads like a romance, and was meant so to be read. The utterance of these admirable sentiments while still in sight of Ensign Ronan, mortally wounded, yet fighting with desperation on one knee, again puts us in doubt as to Mrs. Helm's location on the field; but the next part of her story shows that she was not far from the water. At this moment a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me. By springing aside I avoided the blow, which was intended for my skull, but which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him around the neck, and while exerting my utmost efforts to get possession of his scalping-knife, which hung in a scabbard over his breast, I was dragged from his grasp by another and an older Indian. The latter bore me struggling and resisting toward the lake. Notwithstanding the rapidity with which I was hurried along, I recognized, as I passed them, the remains of the unfortunate surgeon. Some murderous tomahawk had stretched him upon the very spot where I had last seen him. I was immediately plunged into the water and held there with a forcible hand, notwithstanding my resistance. I soon perceived, however, that the object of my captor was not to drown me, for he held me firmly in such a position as to place my head above water. This reassured me, and regarding him attentively I soon recognized, in spite of the paint with which he was disguised, _The Black Partridge_.