Harper's Round Table, August 13, 1895

The white pony was running as it had not done since it was a colt in lower Canada, and had carried its habitant master in many a race, and won them, too. Noel was conscious of a feeling of exultation; for he saw that the scout was losing ground. He cried out to his pursuer in French, and started to wave his hand in a derisive farewell. The effort caused a sharp pain to shoot through his arm, and he found that his hand and wrist were covered with blood. The scout's bullet had torn its way through the flesh of his forearm.

He grew very faint, and had to clutch the saddle tightly with his knees to keep from falling. His weak arm had served to hold the reins, but it was good for little else. He was so dizzy that he could hardly see, and he only dimly realized that he was close to the streams of light coming from the windows of the village tavern. The sound of a galloping horse brought several men to the tavern door.

"Raiders from Can