“What, are the weapons?” I asked.

“What you please.  You have a sword and your little guns.”

Mayoga laughed loud.  “My bow is sufficient,” he cried.  “See, I leave knife and tomahawk behind,” and he cast them on the grass.

Not to be outdone, I took off my sword, though that was more an encumbrance than a weapon.

“I have but the two shots,” I said.

“Then I will take but the two arrows,” cried my opponent, shaking the rest out of his quiver; and at this there was a murmur of applause.  There were some notions of decency among these Western Indians.

I bade him take a quiverful.  “You will need them,” said I, looking as truculent as my chicken heart would permit me.

They took me to the eastern side of the wood, and there we waited for the signal, which was a musket shot, telling me that Mayoga was ready to enter at the opposite end.  My companions were friendly enough, and seemed to look on the duel as a kind of sport.  I could not understand their tongue, but I fancy that they wagered among themselves on the issue, if, indeed, that was in doubt, or, at any rate, on the time before I should fall.  They had forgotten that they had tortured me the night before, and one clapped me on the shoulder and seemed to encourage me.  Another pointed to my raw shins, and wound some kind of soft healing fibre round my feet and ankles.  I did my best to keep a stout face, and when the shot came, I waved my hand to them and plunged boldly into the leafy darkness.

But out of the presence of men my courage departed, and I became the prey of dismal fear.  How was I, with my babyish woodcraft, to contend for a moment against an Indian who was as subtle and velvet-footed as a wild beast?  The wood was mostly of great oaks and chestnuts, with a dense scrub of vines and undergrowth, and in the steepest parts of the hill-side many mossgrown rocks.  I found every movement painful in that rough and matted place.  For one thing, I made an unholy noise.  My tender limbs shrank from every stone and twig, and again and again I rolled over with the pain of it.  Sweat blinded my eyes, and the fatigues of yesterday made my breath labour like a foundered horse.

My first plan—­if the instinct of blind terror can be called a plan—­ was to lie hid in some thick place and trust to getting the first shot at my enemy when he found me.  But I realized that I could not do this.  My broken nerves would not suffer me to lie hidden.  Better the torture of movement than such terrible patience.  So I groped my way on, starting at every movement in the thicket.  Once I roused a deer, which broke off in front of me towards my adversary.  That would tell him my whereabouts, I thought, and for some time I lay still with a palpitating heart.  But soon the silence resumed its sway, a deathlike silence, with far off the faint tinkle of water.