“Take him!  Spare us the dreadful rites, O mother!” answered the chief, in a quivering voice.  “Slay him before us now and let us see the color of his blood, so that we may depart in peace ere the Stonish Giants ride forth from Biskoona and leave not one among us!”

“Neah!” cried the hag, furiously.  “He dies in secret!”

There was a silence of astonishment.  Spite of their superstitious terror, the Senecas knew that a sacrificial death, to close Biskoona, could not occur in secret.  Suddenly the chief leaped forward and dealt me a blow with his castete.  I fell, but staggered to my feet again.

“Mother!” began the chief, “let him die quickly—­”

“Silence!” screamed the hag, supporting me.  “I hear, far off, the gates of Biskoona opening!  Hark!  Ta-ho-ne-ho-ga-wen!  The doors open—­the doors of flame!  The Stonish Giants ride forth!  O chief, for your sacrilege you die!”

A horrified silence followed; the chief reeled back, dropping the death-maul.

Suddenly a horse’s iron-shod foot rang out on a stone, close at hand.  Straight through the moonlight, advancing steadily, came a snorting horse; and, towering in the saddle, a magic shape clad in complete steel, glittering in the moonlight.

“Oonah!” shrieked the hag, seizing me in both arms.

With an unearthly howl the Senecas fled; the Toad-woman dropped me and bounded on the dazed renegade; he turned, crying out in horror, stumbled, and fell headlong down the bushy slope.

Then, as the hag halted, she seemed to grow, straightening up, tall, broad, superb; towering into a supple shape from which the scarlet rags fell fluttering around her like painted maple-leaves.

“Magdalen Brant!” I gasped, swaying where I stood, the blood almost blinding me.

From behind two steel-clad arms seized me and dragged me backward; I stumbled against the horse; the armored figure bent swiftly, caught me up, swung me clear into the saddle in front, while the armor creaked and strained and clashed with the effort.

Then my head was drawn gently back, falling on a steel shoulder; two arms were thrust under mine, seizing the bridle.  The horse wheeled towards the north, stepping quietly through the moonlight, steadily, slowly northward, through misty woodlands and ferny glades and deep fields swimming under the moon, across a stony stream, up through wet meadows, into a silvery road, and across a bridge which echoed mellow thunder under the trample of the iron-shod horse.

The stockade gate was shut; an old slave opened it—­a trembling black man, who shot the bolts and tottered beside us, crying and pressing my hand to his eyes.

Men came from the stables, men ran from the quarters, lanterns glimmered, windows in the house opened, and I heard a vague clamor growing around me, fainter now, yet dinning in my ears until a soft, dense darkness fell, weighing on my lids till they closed.