It merely drew back to protect itself against
being flanked in the forest, and the faces of the borderers, sullen and
determined, were still turned to the enemy.
Yet the line of fire was visibly retreating, and, when the Shawnee
forces saw it, a triumphant yell was poured from hundreds of throats.
They rushed forward, only to be driven back again by the hail of
bullets, and Ross said to Mr. Ware: "I guess we burned their faces
then."
"Look to the wounded! look to the wounded!" repeated Mr. Ware. "See that
no man too weak is left to help himself."
They had gone half a mile when Henry glanced around for Paul. His eyes,
trained to the darkness, ran over the dim forms about him. Many were
limping and others already had arms in slings made from their hunting
shirts, but Henry nowhere saw the figure of his old comrade. A fever of
fear assailed him. One of two things had happened. Paul was either
killed or too badly wounded to walk, and somehow in the darkness they
had missed him. The schoolmaster's face blanched at the news. Paul had
been his favorite pupil.
"My God!" he groaned, "to think of the poor lad in the hands of those
devils!"
Henry Ware stood beside the master, when he uttered these words,
wrenched by despair from the very bottom of his chest.
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