Here was the source of that Mohawk whoop! Incredible as it was, the thing was true. Crawford saw the redskin deliberately whip out tomahawk and poise for the throw, while the settler, plunging blindly along the road, was ignorant of his doom. Crawford gripped his own axe and, with a swift motion, hurled it--but too late. The other had flung, and even as one blade hit home, the second followed suit. Each man was destroyed by an unseen enemy. Crawford’s axe struck through wide hat to brain, and the woods rover plunged forward into the road, without a cry. The hapless fugitive, struck glancingly, but no less fatally, dropped in his tracks and the tomahawks spun in the icy road beyond him. For a moment Crawford waited, searching the farther trees with keen scrutiny, appalled by what had just happened; that the Mohawk could be raiding this country was beyond belief. No sign of any one else could be descried and, as he looked back to the two figures, came the explanation. The rover’s wide hat had fallen away to disclose reddish hair. He was no redskin, but a white man, a Canadian--one of those _voyageurs_ and _coureurs-de-bois_ who had adopted Indian habits, wives and appearance. This explained the Mohawk cry, for many of that clan had settled above Montreal and took the French part against the English and Iroquois. The English fugitive lifted his bloody head and came to one knee. Crawford broke from his covert and, discarding the snowshoes, ran to help the man, catching him in his arms. A glance showed that the wound was mortal, but the dying eyes widened on Crawford. “Who are ye?” “A friend,” said Crawford, unwonted kindness in his cold eyes. “I tried to get the rogue before he let fly, but failed. Who is he? What does it mean?” “English, be ye? On guard, on guard!” A flicker of energy filled the fading voice. “I run away from ’em--the devils are sweepin’ the coast! It’s Iberville himself, they say--Canadians, Injuns! St. John’s captured, burned; they’ve burned Heart’s Content, Havre de Grace, all the settlements! Carbonear Island holds out--whence come you that you know not these things?” “I landed yesterday,” said Crawford. “Then flee with your ship!” cried the dying man. “There is no rescue--all is slaughter! Old Perlican is burned--sloops burned--ship captured--ship from England at Bay de Verde was taken last night--full of provisions--the Irish slaves have risen against us--murder----” The man’s head joggled forward in death. So there was war in the land! Crawford stood for a little in thought, astounded beyond measure by this news. He had heard of Iberville ere this; that name was both famous and infamous in New England, for it was Iberville who had raided Schenectady with his Mohawk brethren--a gentleman, an officer of the French navy, a wild adventurer who halted for no odds, a Mohawk by adoption. Such was Pierre le Moyne, Sieur d’Iberville.