“Bravo! well met!” cried Richard; and then, betwixt his teeth:  “Here comes mine.”

As he spoke, a second tomahawk was sped.  I heard it strike with a dull crash that might have been on flesh and bone, or on oak-bark—­I could not tell.  I dared not look aside till Richard’s taunting laugh gave me leave to breathe again.

The Indians answered the laugh with a yell; and now the marksmen stood out quickly one after another and for a little space the air was full of hurtling missiles.  You will read in the romances of the wondrous skill of these savages in such diversions as these; how they will pin the victim to a tree and never miss of sticking knife or hatchet within the thickness of the blade where they will.  But you must take these tales with a dash of allowance for the romancers’ fancy.  Truly, these Indians of ours threw well and skilfully; ’tis a part of the only trade they know—­the trade of war—­to send a weapon true to the mark.  None the less, some of the missiles flew wide; and now and then one would nip the cloth of sleeve or body covering—­and the flesh beneath it, as well.

Dick had more of the nippings than I; and though he kept up a running fire of taunts and gibing flings at the marksmen, I could hear the gritting oaths aside when they pinked him.

Notwithstanding, the worst of these miscasts fell to my lot.  A hatchet, sped by the clumsiest hand of all, missed its curving, turned, and the helve of it struck me fair in the stomach.  Not all the parting pangs of death, as I fondly believe, will lay a heavier toll on fortitude than did this griping-stroke which I must endure standing erect.  ’Tis no figure of speech to say that I would have given the reversion of a kingdom, and a crown to boot, for leave to double over and groan out the agony of it.

Happily for us, there were no women with the band, so we were spared the crueler refinements of these ante-burning torments; the flaying alive by inch-bits, and the sticking of blazing splints of pitchwood in the flesh to make death a thing to be prayed for.  There was naught of this; and tiring finally of the marksman play, the Indians made ready to burn us.  Some ran to recover the spent weapons; others made haste to heap the wood in a broad circle about our trees; and the chief, with three or four to help, renewed the deer-thong lashings.

’Twas in the rebinding that this headman, a right kingly-looking savage as these barbarians go, thrust a bit of paper into my hand, and gave me time to glance its message out by the light of the fire.  ’Twas a line from Margery; and this is what she said: 

     Dear Heart: 

Though you must needs believe my love is pledged to your good friend and mine, ’tis yours, and yours alone, my lion-hearted one.  I am praying the good God to give you dying grace, and me the courage to follow you quickly.  Margery.

     This by the hand of Tallachama._