The twilight melted into the dark, and fires gleamed here and there in the village.  Dusky figures passed before and behind the fires—­those of squaws cooking the suppers.  Paul’s eyes wandered, idle and unobserving, over the savage scene, and then he uttered a little cry of impatience as a hulking warrior lurched against him.  The man seemed to have tripped upon a root, an unusual thing for these sure-footed sons of the forest, and Paul drew back from him.  But the savage recovered himself, and in a low voice said: 

“Paul!”

Paul Cotter started violently.  It was the first word in good English that he had heard in a time that seemed to be eternity—­save those of Braxton Wyatt, whom he hated—­and the effect upon him was overpowering.  It was like a voice of hope coming suddenly from another world.

“Paul,” continued the voice, now warningly, “don’t speak.  Go on to your hut.  Friends are by.”

Then the hulking and savage figure walked away, and Paul knew enough to take no apparent notice, but to continue on as if that welcome voice Had not come out of the darkness.  Yet a thousand little pulses within him were throbbing, throbbing with joy and hope.

But whose was the voice?  In his excitement he had not noticed the tone except to note that it was a white man’s.  He glanced back and saw the hulking form near the outskirts of the village, but the light was too dim to disclose anything.  Henry?  No, it was not Henry’s figure.  Then who was it?  A friend, that was certain, and he had said that other friends were by.

Paul walked with a light step to his prison hut, sedulously seeking to hide the exultation in his face.  He was not forgotten in his world!  His friends were ready to risk their lives for him!  His heart was leaping as he looked through the dusk at the smoking camp fires, the dim huts and tepees, and the shadowy figures that passed and repassed.  He would soon be leaving all that savage life.  He never doubted it.

He came to his prison hut, went calmly inside, and a few minutes later, the regular time being at hand, the door was fastened on the outside by Red Eagle or some of his people.  He might perhaps have forced the door in the night, but he had not considered himself a skillful enough woodsman to slip from the village unobserved, and accordingly he had waited.  Now he was very glad of his restraint.

Paul lay down on the couch of skins, but he was not seeking sleep.  Instead he was waiting patiently, with something of Indian stoicism.  He saw through the cracks in his hut the Indian fires, yet burning and smoking, and the dim figures still passing and repassing.  There was also the faint hum to tell him that savage life did not yet sleep, and now and then a mongrel cur barked.  But all things end in time, and after a while these noises ceased; even the cure barked no more, and the smoking fires sank low.

The Indian village lay at peace, but Paul’s heart throbbed with expectation.  Nor did it throb in vain.  A muffled sound appeared in time at his door.  It was some one at work on the fastenings, and Paul listened with every nerve a-quiver.  Presently the noise ceased, a shaft of pale night light showed, and then was gone.  But the door had been opened, and then closed, and some one was inside.