“What, Ranald?” cried Harry. “Then we are all right. I swear it is,” he said, after a few moments, and then, remembering the story of the great fight on the Nation, which he had heard from Hughie and Maimie, he raised the Macdonald war-cry: “Glengarry! Glengarry!” Ranald paused and looked about him. “Here, Ranald!” yelled Harry, waving his white handkerchief. Then Ranald caught sight of him. “Glengarry!” he cried, and sprang far into the crowd in Harry's direction. “Glengarry! Glengarry forever!” echoed Yankee--for he it was--plunging after his leader. Swift and sharp like the thrust of a lance, the Glengarry men pierced the crowd, which gave back on either side, and soon reached the group at the wall. “How in the world did YOU get here?” cried Ranald to Harry; then, looking about him, cried: “Where is LeNware? I heard he was being killed by the Gatineaus, and I got a few of our men and came along.” “LeNware? That is our Canadian friend, I suppose,” said the lieutenant. “He was here a while ago. By Jove! There he is.” Surrounded by a crowd of the Gatineaus, LeNoir, for he was the leader of the Ottawas, was being battered about and like to be killed. “Glengarry!” cried Ranald, and like a lion he leaped upon them, followed by Yankee and the others. Right and left he hurled the crowd aside, and seizing LeNoir, brought him out to his own men. “Who are you?” gasped LeNoir. “Why, no, it ees not possible. Yes, it is Yankee for sure! And de Macdonald gang, but”--turning to Ranald--“who are YOU?” he said again. “Never mind,” said Ranald, shortly, “let us get away now, quick! Go on, Yankee.” At once, with Yankee leading, the Glengarry men marched off the field of battle bearing with them the rescued party. There was no time to lose. The enemy far outnumbered them, and would soon return to the attack. “But how did you know we were in trouble, Ranald?” said Harry as he marched along. “I didn't know anything about you,” said Ranald. “Some one came and said that the bully of the Ottawa was being killed, so I came along.” “And just in time, by Jove!” said the lieutenant, aroused from his languor for once. “It was a deucedly lucky thing, and well done, too, 'pon my soul.” That night, as Ranald and his uncle were in their cabin on the raft talking over the incidents of the day, and Ranald's plans for the summer, a man stood suddenly in the doorway. “I am Louis LeNoir,” he said, “and I have some word to say to de young Macdonald. I am sore here,” he said, striking his breast. “I cannot spik your languige. I cannot tell.” He stopped short, and the tears came streaming down his face. “I cannot tell,” he repeated, his breast heaving with mighty sobs. “I would be glad to die--to mak' over--to not mak'--I cannot say de word--what I do to your fadder. I would give my life,” he said, throwing out both his hands. “I would give my life. I cannot say more.”