The momentary pause that succeeded the movement by which the two
antagonists threw themselves into these fine attitudes, was full of
meaning. Neither spoke, neither permitted play of muscle, neither even
seemed to breathe. The delay was not like that of preparation, for each
stood ready for his deadly effort, nor would it have been possible to
trace in the compressed energy of the countenance of Mark, or in the lofty
and more practised bearing of the front and eye of the Indian, any thing
like wavering of purpose. An emotion foreign to the scene appeared to
possess them both, each active frame unconsciously accommodating itself to
the bloody business of the hour, while the inscrutable agency of the mind
held them, for a brief interval, in check.
A yell of death from the mouth of a savage who was beaten to the very
feet of his chief by a blow of the stranger, and an encouraging shout
from the lips of the latter, broke the short trance. The knees of the
chief bent still lower, the head of the tomahawk was a little raised, the
blade of the knife was seen glittering from its sheath, and the but of
Mark's musket had receded to the utmost tension of his sinews, when a
shriek and a yell, different from any before heard that day, sounded
near.
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