inst his stirrup.

"Faint with fatigue, brier-torn, in rags--his vengeance, but--_nothing
worse_. That quarter-breed Montour attended her, supported her,
struggled on with her through all the horrors of this retreat. He had
herded the Valley prisoners together, guarded by Cayugas. The
executioner lies dead a mile below, his black face in the water. And
here _he_ lies!"

He swung his horse, head sternly averted. I flung myself into my
saddle.

"This way, lad. She lies in a camp-wagon at headquarters, asleep, I
think. Mount and your Oneida guard her. And the girl, Montour, lies
stretched beside her, watching her as a dog watches a cradled child."

The hunting-horns of the light infantry were sounding the recall as we
rode through the low brush of Jerseyfield, where the sunset sky was
aflame, painting the tall pines, staining the melting snow to palest
crimson.

From black, wet branches overhead the clotted flakes fell, showering us
as we came to the hemlock shelter where the camp-wagon stood. A fire
burned there; before it crowded a shadowy group of riflemen; and one
among them moved forward to meet me, touching his fur cap and pointing.

As I reached the rough shelter of fringing evergreen Mount and Little
Otter stepped out; and I saw the giant forest-runner wink the tears
away as he laid his huge finger across his lips.

"She sleeps as sweetly as a child," he whispered. "I told her you were
coming. Oh, sir, it will tear your heart out to see her small white
feet so bruised, and the soft, baby hands of her raw at the wrists,
where they tied her at night.... _Is_ he surely dead, sir, as they
say?"

"I saw him die, thank God!"

"That is safer for him, I think," said Mount simply. "Will you come
this way, sir? Otter, fetch a splinter o' fat pine for a light. Mind
the wheel there, Mr. Renault--this way on tiptoe!"

He took the splinter-light from the Oneida, fixed it in a split stick,
backed out, and turned away, followed by the Indian.

At first I could not see, and set the burning stick nearer. Then, as I
bent over the rough wagon, I saw her lying there very white and still,
her torn hands swathed with lint, her bandaged feet wrapped in furs.
And beside her, stretched full length, lay Lyn Montour, awake, dark
eyes fixed on mine.

She smiled as she caught my eye; then something in my face sobered her.
"He is dead?" she motioned with her lips. And my lips moved assent.

Gravely, scarcely stirring, she reache