This I gathered amid all their chit-chat while we stood under the willows near the spring, watching Ruyven pace the distance from the post back across the greensward towards us.

Then, making his heel-mark in the grass, he took a green willow wand and set it, all feathered, in the turf.

“Is it fair for Dorothy to cast her own hatchet?” asked Harry.

“Give me Ruyven’s,” she said, half vexed.  Aught that touched her sense of fairness sent a quick flame of anger to her cheeks which I admired.

“Keep your own hatchet, cousin,” I said; “you may have need of it.”

“Give me Ruyven’s hatchet,” she repeated, with a stamp of her foot which Ruyven hastened to respect.  Then she turned to me, pink with defiance: 

“It is always a stranger’s honor,” she said; so I advanced, drawing my light, keen weapon from its beaded sheath, which I had belted round me; and Ruyven took station by the post, ten paces to the right.

The post was painted scarlet, ringed with white above; below, in outline, the form of a man—­an Indian—­with folded arms, also drawn in white paint.  The play was simple; the hatchet must imbed its blade close to the outlined shape, yet not “wound” or “draw blood.”

“Brant at first refused to cast against that figure,” said Harry, laughing.  “He consented only because the figure, though Indian, was painted white.”

I scarce heard him as I stood measuring with my eyes the distance.  Then, taking one step forward to the willow wand, I hurled the hatchet, and it landed quivering in the shoulder of the outlined figure on the post.

“A wound!” cried Cecile; and, mortified, I stepped back, biting my lip, while Harry notched one point against me on the willow wand and Dorothy, tightening her girdle, whipped out her bright war-axe and stepped forward.  Nor did she even pause to scan the post; her arm shot up, the keen axe-blade glittered and flew, sparkling and whirling, biting into the post, chuck! handle a-quiver.  And you could not have laid a June willow-leaf betwixt the Indian’s head and the hatchet’s blade.

She turned to me, lips parted in a tormenting smile, and I praised the cast and took my hatchet from Ruyven to try once more.  Yet again I broke skin on the thigh of the pictured captive; and again the glistening axe left Dorothy’s hand, whirring to a safe score, a grass-stem’s width from the Indian’s head.

I understood that I had met my master, yet for the third time strove; and my axe whistled true, standing point-bedded a finger’s breadth from the cheek.

“Can you mend that, Dorothy?” I asked, politely.

She stood smiling, silent, hatchet poised, then nodded, launching the axe.  Crack! came the handles of the two hatchets, and rattled together.  But the blade of her hatchet divided the space betwixt my blade and the painted face, nor touched the outline by a fair hair’s breadth.