“This English thief has insulted me and holds in his hand the sacred calumet. This is not a matter for Canadians. His scalp is mine, and I claim it!” Then, whirling upon Crawford, the chief whipped out a knife. “Give me your scalp, English thief! It is mine.” Now Bienville stood silent and perplexed, not knowing who Crawford might be, and astounded at his having come recently from Pentagoet; he could place Crawford for neither friend nor enemy. And Crawford, knowing that he must prevent any summons to the Canadians, took instant advantage of the boy’s perplexity. “Keep out of it, Bienville,” he said rapidly, as he rose to his feet. “I have a message for Iberville which is imperative.” Then he looked at the Abnaki chief and smiled frostily. “Your _manitou_ has deserted you,” he said, using the word _esprit_ which translated the Indian term. “At the name of the Iroquois your _manitou_ trembles and is afraid. That is a woman’s scalp at your belt, Caniba dog. Look, how your _manitou_ causes it to shake and quiver with fright!” For an instant the fury-red gaze of the chief dropped to the silky scalp at his waist--and in that instant Crawford was upon him. But his moccasins slipped in the soft snow around the fire; the blow failed, and Crawford, unable to regain balance, fell headlong. Like a snake uncoiling in stroke, the Abnaki leaped. Crawford twisted on his side in the snow, by a miracle of dexterity evading the knife-blow, but he could not evade the crushing weight of the redskin, which pinned him down. He drove up blindly and desperately with his own knife. The blade slid home in flesh, then the haft was jerked from his hand as the Abnaki writhed up, only slightly hurt. For an instant Crawford, helpless to move, knew himself lost. The chief was kneeling upon him, knife flashing up for the finishing stroke; with a grunt, the redskin brought it down for Crawford’s breast. The blow went true--but the point swerved, turned sharply aside, glanced from Crawford’s ribs into the ground. The Star of Dreams had intervened. “My _manitou_ is strong,” panted Crawford, and threw out his strength. Astonished and dismayed by the happening, disconcerted by those words, the Abnaki was caught in relaxation. He swung sidewise, then Crawford had him by knife-arm and throat and dragged him down in deadly embrace. Through the snow they plunged, bodies interlocked in a desperate grip, rolling over and over, while to one side watched the eager-faced Bienville, lowered pistol forgotten. Crawford knew himself the better man at this game, feeling the throat-tendons of the redskin yield to his iron fingers; but at the same time he felt the chief’s left hand leave his arm and go down for the tomahawk at girdle. Then, the heat of the fire close at hand, he hurled himself sidelong, dragged the Indian over him, thrust that hideously painted head and torso into the flames and embers of the blaze.