me now. The Black Chief wants you. But I kill him
and we run. They are all dirt. _Come!_"

On the word, he sprang straight at the great Black Chief, where he
towered upon his rock. But the girl, though she heard every syllable,
never stirred.

The spring of Mawg was like a leopard's; but the Black Chief, though
slow of foot, was not slow of hand or wits. Though taken by surprise,
he swung up his club in time to partly parry Mawg's lightning stroke,
which would otherwise have broken his bull neck. As it was, the club
was almost beaten from his grasp. He dropped it with a snarl and
leaped at his assailant's throat with clutching hands.

Had it been possible to fight it out man to man, Mawg would have liked
nothing better, though the issue would have been a doubtful one. But
he had no mind to face the whole tribe, which was now surging forward
like a pack of wolves. He had no time to repeat his blow fairly; but
as he eluded the gigantic, clutching fingers he got in a light
glancing stroke with the butt which laid open his adversary's cheek
and closed one furious little eye. At the same instant he whirled away
lithely, sprang from the rock on the further side, and ran off like a
deer through the trees, cursing the girl because she had not followed
him. About half the tribe went trailing after him, yelling hoarsely,
while the rest drew back and waited uneasily to see what their Chief
would do.

The Chief, clapping one hairy hand over his wounded eye, glared after
the fugitive with the other. But he knew the folly of trying to catch
his fleet-footed adversary, and after a moment he dismissed him from
his mind. With a grunt he stepped down from his rock, and heedless of
his wound, strode over to the girl. Through all the tumult she had
never lifted her head from between her knees, or shown the least sign
of concern. The Chief seized her by the shoulder and shook her
roughly, ordering her to come with him. She did not understand his
language, but his meaning was obvious. She looked up and stared
straight into his one open eye. In her own eyes shifted the dangerous,
lambent flame of a beast at bay, and for a moment she was on the point
of darting at his throat.

But not without reason was the Black Chief dictator of the Bow-legs.
Brutal and filthy though he was, and hideous beyond description, and
horrible with his gashed face and the blood pouring down over his huge
and shaggy chest, he was all a man, and the mastery in h