"Robert!" she cried, as if he could hear. "Go back!" All at once she saw what he meant to do. Already he had turned a little toward the lake, hoping to cut them off. "Oh God!" breathed Beatrice. "And I called him a coward!" The Indians now were not more than three hundred feet away, but when they saw him coming they swerved away from Beatrice and rode toward him. Robert turned straight east at a plunging gallop, then there was a sharp report from his musket and a savage fell dead. Then he threw away the musket, pulled out his pistol, fired and wounded another. A tomahawk grazed his head and the blood dyed his face, but he kept on. From where she stood, she saw it all. Hand to hand, almost--yes, they were upon him now, but there was a gleam of silver in the sun and two of them fell back, wounded. "Lexington!" she cried. "His grandfather's sword!" All but four retreated, though his horse was hurt and well-nigh spent. His next shot missed fire and his pistol was snatched out of his hand, but the keen blade shone once more and another was dismounted. The blood streamed from his wound as he dashed toward her, gaining upon the two who were pursuing him. All at once he stopped in his mad pace, turned, and with a single swift cut struck down the one nearest him. With a wild war-whoop the second Indian signalled to another who stood beside his dead horse, far out on the plain, but there was no answer. Quick as a flash Beatrice ran toward them, aimed steadily, fired, and the last Indian fell, mortally wounded. "Thank God!" cried Robert, as he fell from his horse. "You are safe!" * * * * * They stood alone upon the desolate plain, looking into each other's eyes. Robert's clothes were torn and cut, and his face was black with blood and dust, but he seemed like a god to her. "You saved me," she murmured, with parched lips. "How did you save me?" "You were like another Beatrice," he whispered,--"you led me through hell!" Face to face at last, after all the misunderstandings, Beatrice saw him as he was. The terrors of the day were temporarily forgotten, as when one wakes from a horrible dream to a new joy. Something stirred in the girl's heart and sprang, full-fledged, into exultant being. The light in her eyes confused him, and he turned his face away. "It was nothing," he said diffidently,--"only a running fight--that's all. When the history of to-day is written, it will be a single paragraph--no more. Two officers and thirty-six regulars killed in action, two women and twelve children--a mere handful. No one will know that a civilian was so fortunate as to save the woman he loved. It is a common thing--not worth the writing." Beatrice, still transfigured, put her hands upon his shoulders; but, though he trembled at her touch, he kept his face turned away. "Don't thank me," he said unsteadily. "I can't bear it. It is nothing. Perhaps I've proved that I'm not----"