“For God’s sake let them hear no sound in this belt of bush,” I whispered to Lois.

“I am calm, Euan.  I am not afraid.”

“Then fallow the Sagamore.”

One by one we turned and crept away southward; and I was ever fearful that some gleam from the fire, catching our rifle-barrels or axe-heads, might betray us.  But we gained the denser growth undiscovered, then rose to our feet in the open forest and hurried forward in file, crowding close to keep in touch.

Once Lois turned and called back in a low, breathless voice;

“I thank Tahoontowhee from my heart for his true eye and his avenging arrow.”

The young warrior laughed; but I knew he was the proudest youth in all the West that night.

The great cat-owls were shrieking and yelping through the forest as we sped southward.  My Indians, silent and morose, their vengeance unslaked and now indefinitely deferred, moved at a dog trot through the forest, led by the Sagamore, whose eyes saw as clearly in the dark as my own by day.

And after a little while we noticed the stars above us, and felt ferns and grass under our feet, and came out into that same glade from whence runs the trail to Yndaia through the western hill cleft.

“People ahead!” whispered the Sagamore.  “Their Sorceress and six Eries!”

“Are you certain?” I breathed, loosening my hatchet.

“Certain, Loskiel.  Yonder they are halted within the ferns.  They are at the stream, drinking.”

I caught Lois by the wrist.

“Come with me—­ hurry!” I said, as the Indians darted away and began to creep out and around the vague and moving group of shadows.  And as we sped forward I whispered brokenly my instructions, conjuring her to obey.

We were right among them before they dreamed of our coming; not a war-cry was uttered; there was no sound save the crashing blows of hatchets, the heavy, panting breathing of those locked in a death struggle, the deep groan and coughing as a knife slipped home.

I flung a clawing Erie from me ere his blood drenched me, and he fell floundering, knifed through and through, and tearing a hole in my rifle-cape with his teeth as he fell.  Two others lay under foot; my Oneidas were slaying another in the ferns, and the Sagamore’s hatchet, swinging like lightning, dashed another into eternity.

The last one ran, but stumbled, with three arrows in his burly neck and spine; and the Night Hawk’s hatchet flew, severing the thread of life far him and hurling him on his face.  Instantly the young Oneida leaped upon the dead man’s shoulders, pulled back his heavy head, and tore the scalp off with a stifled cry of triumph.

“The Black-Snake!” said the Sagamore at my side, breathing heavily from his bloody combat, and dashing the red drops from the scalp he swung.  “Look yonder, Loskiel!  Our little Rosy Pigeon has returned at last!”

I had seen it already, but I turned to look.  And I saw the White Sorceress and my sweetheart close locked in each other’s arms—­ so close and motionless that they seemed but a single snowy shape there under the lustre of the stars.