“There’s one Ottawa less, Mark,” she said. “By stepping into the moonlight and displaying a directed rifle, I have kept the red-skins at bay in mid-stream, where they can touch ground; and until a moment since, they have been afraid to advance. Then one taunted his companions, said that the white girl’s arms shook like leaves, and stepped forward. Ah! Mark, he’ll never fight again. See! down-stream, the demons look like buoys.” “Come girl, we leave the island.” “What, Mark, a boat?” “My boat, Effie. Ha! look yonder! They’re going to flank us.” He pointed up the river to a spot from whence a number of British soldiers were springing into the water, to act in concert with St. Pierre and their red allies, by flanking the island. Instantly Effie turned the spy’s rifle upon the scarlet coats. “No, Effie, they’re the king’s soldiers,” said Mark, gently taking possession of the weapon. “We’re not at war with England, and the death of a Briton by our hands might be mourned by a thousand homes. Come, we’ll defeat them yet.” He caught her hand and darted from the spot, almost directly in the faces of the British, some of whom were in mid-stream above the Cone. A few minutes sufficed to bring them to the wounded Briton, and the spy’s boat. “Major Runnion!” The exclamation bubbled involuntarily to Effie’s lips. The major groaned, and turned his face from the girl he had grossly insulted--deeply wronged. “Perhaps it would serve you right to leave you here,” said Mark Morgan, looking down upon the major. “You’re a murderer, and deserve the gallows; but, I’m not the man to leave a fellow-creature to die without a chance for his life. Were they to find you here, they’d kill you without a moment’s prayer, and I doubt you’re not prepared to settle with the powers above. We’ll take you with us, and if you recover, which, to be plain, I think doubtful, I’ll turn you over to Mad Anthony, and you can guess what he’ll do with you.” “Take me with you,” groaned Runnion. “Do not let me fall into their hands. When I recover I’ll meet them, and fight them fair.” Glancing at Effie, the spy raised the British soldier in his arms, and laid him in the bottom of the boat. The Briton smiled his gratitude. “Get in, girl.” Effie St. Pierre sprung into the bark, and the scout followed. “Now for the gantlet!” he said, as he seized the paddle. The boat shot from the shore; a yell burst from the red-skins below, which was quickly answered by the British above. Effie griped the scout’s trusty rifle. A few strokes sent them around the southern point of the island, and the canoe burst upon the vision of the Britons. A cry of astonishment greeted the daring voyagers. Mark Morgan guided the boat toward the right bank of the stream, and, as if to aid them, clouds flitted before the bright disk of the moon. “Shoot them! shoot them!” shouted a stentorian voice from the bank.