He bore an aspect so strange and fearful that the French uttered
yells of terror, and fled helter-skelter from the onslaught.

But if any had had eyes to note it, there was one Frenchman whose
face became ashy white as he met the rolling gaze of those
terrible, bloodshot eyes. He too flung away his gun, and uttered a
frantic yell of terror, plunging headlong into the wood without a
thought save flight.

"It is he! it is he! it is he!"

This was the shout which rang from the lips of Charles as he dashed
after the retreating figure. All was confusion now amid French and
Rangers alike; that awful yell, and something in the appearance of
Charles, had startled friend and foe alike.

There were several of the French soldiers left dead in the wood,
and one was captured and made prisoner; but the rest had fled like
men demented, and the Rangers could not come up with them. As for
Charles and his quarry, they had disappeared, and it was long
before any trace could be found of them.

Stark and Fritz, however, would not give up the search, and at last
they came upon the prostrate form of Charles. He lay face downwards
on the frozen ground, which was deeply stained with blood. His
wrist was fearfully gashed by some knife; yet in his fingers he
held still a piece of cloth from the coat of the French fugitive.
It had been literally torn out of his grasp before the man could
get free, and he had nearly hacked off the left hand of the hapless
Charles.