rge our horses forward once more, keeping
close to the mountain foot; conversing in whispers, we crawl around and
among the loose boulders that have fallen from above, and after an
hour's ride we find ourselves opposite the town.

The night passes slowly and silently; one by one the fires are
extinguished, and the plain is wrapped in the gloom of a moonless night.
The swan utters its wild note, the gruya whoops over the stream, and the
wolf howls on the skirts of the sleeping village.

Dismounting, we gather in a little knot, and consult as to what plan we
shall pursue. It is finally determined that Harding and myself shall
penetrate into the village, enter the chief's lodge, abduct my wife, and
hastily rejoin our comrades, who will hold themselves in readiness to
cover our retreat, and, if the worst comes to the worst, keep our
pursuers at bay until we have made good our escape.

Hastily divesting ourselves of all unnecessary accoutrements, we started
out on the plain, and cautiously approached the chief's lodge, which
loomed up in the darkness like some hideous genii.

An Indian dog that was lurking about the door gave the alarm, but
Harding's knife entered his vitals ere he could repeat it.

Now was the critical moment. Drawing the flap aside that served as a
door, I peered cautiously in; all was silent; a small fire was burning
in the center of the lodge, its fitful gleam dimly illuminating the
interior. A number of low couches were ranged around the wall.

But at this juncture a dilemma presented itself. Here were a number of
women, one of when was certainly my wife; but how was I to ascertain in
which of these couches she reposed. If I should trust to chance, advance
to the first one and peer in, and by so doing startle its inmate, even
though that inmate were my wife, the peculiar nature of the visit would
so startle her that she would not be enabled to recognize the intruder.

However, I determined to approach the first bed and trust to the chapter
of accidents for the rest. Advancing noiselessly to the side of the
couch, I lifted the curtain of dressed buffalo hide. The fire cast a dim
light over the face of the sleeper, and, oh, joy, it was the loved
features of my wife. I tried to speak, whisper her name; my tongue clove
to the roof of my mouth. I trembled like an aspen, and had to grasp the
bed for support. This movement awakened the sleeper, and with an
half-suppressed exclamation, she sprung to a sit