“Where is Boyd?” I whispered helplessly.  “They mean to murder her!”

“Kill that executioner!” panted Lois, struggling in my arms.  “In God’s name, slay him where he stands!”

“It means our death,” said the Sagamore.

The Night Hawk came crouching close to my shoulder.  He had unslung and strung his little painted bow of an adolescent, and was fitting the nock of a slim arrow to the string.

He looked up at me; I nodded; and as the executioner clapped his heels together, straightened himself, and drew the arrow to his ear, we heard a low twang!  And saw the black hand of the Seneca pinned to his own bow by the Night Hawk’s shaft.

So noiselessly was it done that the fascinated throng could not at first understand what had happened to the executioner, who sprang into the air, screamed, and stood clawing and plucking at the arrow while his bow hung dripping with blood, yet nailed to his shrinking palm.

Amochol, frozen to a scarlet statue, stared at the contortions of the executioner for a moment, then, livid, wheeled on the Prophetess, shaking from head to foot.

“Is this your accursed magic?” he shouted.  “Is this your witchcraft, Sorceress of Biskoonah?  Is it thus you strike when threatened?  Then you shall burn!  Take her, Andastes!”

But the Andastes, astounded and terrified, only cowered together in a swaying pack.

Restraining Lois with all my strength, I said to the Mohican: 

“If Boyd comes not before they take her, concentrate your fire on Amochol, for we can not hope to make him prisoner——­”

“Hark!” motioned the Sagamore, grasping my arm.  I heard also, and so did the others.  The woods on our left were full of noises, the trample of people running, the noise of crackling underbrush.

We all thought the same thing, and stood waiting to see Boyd’s onset break from the forest.  The Red Priest also heard it, for he had turned where he stood, his rigid arm still menacing the White Sorceress.

Suddenly, into the firelit circle staggered a British soldier, hatless, dishevelled, his scarlet uniform in rags.

For a moment he stood staring about him, swaying where he stood, then with a hopeless gesture he flung his musket from him and passed a shaking hand across his eyes.

“O Amochol!” cried the Sorceress, pointing a slim and steady finger at the bloody soldier.  “Have I dreamed lies or have I dreamed the truth?  Hearken!  The woods are full of people running!  Do you hear?  And have I lied to you, O Amochol?”

“From whence do you come?” cried Amochol, striding toward the soldier.

“From the Chemung.  Except for the dead we all are coming—­ Butler and Brant and all.  Bring out your corn, Seneca!  The army starves.”

Amochol stared at the soldier, at the executioner still writhing and struggling to loose his hand from the bloody arrow, at the Sorceress who had veiled her face.