"He was an Indian, brandishing a tomahawk; but, within a few feet of where I stood, he fell prone on his face, wallowing in blood. The report of my musket, and his cry, brought all the picquet to the front. We dragged him into the log-hut, and discovered that I had shot our missing scout, the Delaware, Le Vipre Noir, the ball having entered his left shoulder, and traversed nearly the entire length of his body. He was mortally wounded, but the powers of life were strong within him. I was greatly concerned by this misfortune, which might procure us the enmity of his entire tribe; but why was he stealing upon our post in the manner he had done? "Before this could be resolved, and while we were staunching the welling blood, and doing all in our humble power to soothe suffering and prolong existence, a pale and bloody figure, who had given our sentries the pass-word, staggered into the hut, and sunk, half fainting, against the guard-bed. He was old Abe Treherne, the scout, cut, gashed, and apparently dying. "He was almost as speechless as the Delaware; but, on seeing each other, though weak and deplorable their condition, the eyes of these men glared with rage and hate, and they made such incredible efforts to reach each other, knife in hand, that the soldiers of my picquet had to hold them asunder by force. "'Search the hunting-pouch of the darned thief--the accursed red-skin!' said Treherne, in a hollow voice. 'May I never hew hickory again if I don't have his scalp and his heart tew!' "I was about to make the search, when Charley Halket anticipated me, and shudderingly drew forth its cold and clammy contents. "There were four human scalps; three were recognised as belonging to our own men, the murdered sentinels, and the fourth had attached to it the long, black, silky hair of a woman--the soft and ripply tresses of Ella Carleton! "'The red-skin fell on us suddenly in the bush, with knife and tomahawk,' said Treherne, speaking with difficulty, and at intervals; 'he took me unawares from behind, and well nigh clove my head--darned if I don't think the tommy's stickin' there yet! I fought hard for my precious life--harder for the poor lady, I guess; but I swowned, after a time, and then he dragged her into the bush.' "'Ella--Ella!' exclaimed Halket, wringing his hands. "'The last I saw, 'tween the leaves and the blood that poured into my eyes, was the glitter of his scalping-knife; and the last I heard was her death-cry. Shoot the varmint, captain! I searched the bush for her till I was weary. Shoot the critter dead, soldiers! Ah! he was well named Le Vipre Noir, by that son of a Delaware dog, his father.'