re moving
to-night--moving under the calm covering of apparent peace; moving now
lest the morrow should put it beyond the power of the red man to mete out
the full measure of his lust for native savagery. And so at last there
comes a breaking of the perfect peace of night.

A dark figure moves out of the depths of the woods. It moves slowly
toward the log hut of Nevil Steyne. It pauses at a distance and surveys
the dim outline against the woodland backing.

Another figure moves out from the woods, and a moment later another and
yet another; and each figure follows in the track of the foremost, and
they stand talking in low murmurs. Thus twenty-five blanketed figures are
gathered before the hut of the white renegade. They are Indians,
hoary-headed patriarchs of their race, but glowing with the fierce spirit
of youth in their sluggish hearts.

Presently they file away one by one, and it becomes apparent that each old
man is well armed. They spread out and form themselves into a wide circle,
which slowly closes in upon the hut. Then each decrepit figure huddles
itself down upon its haunches, like some bald-headed vulture settling with
heavily flapping wings upon its prey.

Sleep has not visited the eyes of those within the hut. When things go
awry with those who live by double-dealing, sleep does not come easily.
Nevil Steyne is awake, and his faithful wife keeps him company.

The interior of the hut is dismantled. Bundles of furnishings lie
scattered about on the floor. It is plain that this is to be the last
night which these two intend to spend in the log hut which has sheltered
them so long.

The squaw is lying fully dressed upon the bed, and the man is sitting
beside her smoking. They are talking, discussing eagerly that which has
held the man's feverish interest the whole night.

There is no kindness in the man's tone as he speaks to the woman. He is
beset with a fear he cannot conceal. It is in his tone, it is in his eyes,
it is in his very restlessness.

The woman is calm. She is an Indian, and in her veins runs the blood of
generations of great chiefs. Fear has no place in her heart, but her
devotion to her man makes her anxious for him. Her slow, labored use of
his language is meant to encourage him, but he takes no comfort from it.
His utter selfishness, his cowardice, place him beyond mere verbal
encouragement.

"It still wants two hours to dawn," Nevil exclaimed, referring to his
watch for about the