by a hand I could not see; then on that same wall there appeared the dark shadow of an arm, and the bent, distorted image of a head.  I pressed my one free hand beneath my neck, and thus, by an effort, lifted myself so as to see more clearly beyond the shoulder of the dead Indian.  The first tiny, flickering spark of fire had caught the dry wood, and was swiftly bursting into flame.  In another moment this had illumined that stooping figure, and rested in a blaze of light upon the lowered face, bringing out the features as though they were framed against the black wall beyond—­a woman’s face, the face of Eloise!

I gave vent to one startled, inarticulate cry, and she sprang to her feet, the mantling flames girdling her as though she were a statue.  They lit up the white-washed wall, splashed with blood, and gave a glimpse of the wrecked timbers dangling from above.  In that first frightened glance she failed to see me; her whole posture told of fear, of indecision.

“Who was it spoke?  Who called?  Is someone alive here?”

The trembling words sounded strange, unnatural, I could barely whisper, yet I did my best.

“It is Steven, Eloise—­come to me.”

“Steven!  Steven Knox—­alive!  Oh, my God; you have answered my prayer!”

She found me, heedless of all the horror in between, as though guided by some instinct, and dropped on her knees beside me.  I felt a tear fall on my cheek, and then the warm, eager pressure of her lips to mine, I could not speak; I could only hold her close with my one hand.  The flames beyond leaped up, widening their gleam of light, revealing more clearly the dear face and the joy with which she gazed down upon me.

“You are suffering,” she cried.  “What can I do?  Is it this Indian’s body?”

“Yes,” I breathed, the effort of speaking an agony.  “He lies directly across my chest, a dead weight.”

It taxed her strength to the utmost, but, oh, the immediate relief!  With the drawing of a full breath I felt a return of manhood, a revival of life.  Another body pinned my limbs to the floor, but this was more easily disposed of.  Then I managed to lift myself, but with the first attempt her arm was about my shoulders.

“No; not alone—­let me help you.  Do you really think you can stand!  Why, you are hurt, dear; this is a knife wound in your side.  It looks ugly, but is not deep and bleeds no longer.  Are there other injuries?”

“My head rings, and this left arm appears paralyzed, from blows, no doubt, and there are spots on my body which feel like burns.  No, I am not in bad shape.  Now let me stand alone; that’s better.  Good God, what a scene!”