nt of leaping upon him; but he was as
motionless as a log, and the hand of the boy was upraised again as he
took another stealthy step forward. A half step more, and his fingers
closed around the barrel. The touch of the cold iron sent a thrill
through him, for it was like the palpable hand of Hope itself.

The powder horn lay on the ground beside the weapon, the Indian having
made no use of either since they came into his possession. The string
was quickly flung over the shoulder of the boy, who then began moving in
the same guarded fashion toward the door, throwing furtive glances over
his shoulder at the king and queen, who did not dream of what was going
on in their palace.

Jack Carleton "crossed the Rubicon" when he lifted the rifle and powder
horn from the ground. Had he been checked previous to that he would have
turned back to his couch, and made the pretense that what he did was the
result of a delirium. But with the possession of his weapon came a
self-confidence that would permit no obstruction to divert him from his
purpose. He would not have fired on the chief or his squaw (except to
save his own life), for that would have been unpardonable cruelty, but
he would have made a dash into the outer air, where he was sure of
eluding his pursuers, so long as the night lasted.

But the slumber of the couple was genuine. They did not stir or do
anything except to breathe in their sonorous fashion. Jack took hold of
the bison skin to draw it aside, when he found the door was locked. It
was an easy matter, however, to unfasten it, and a single step placed
him outside the wigwam.

Instead of hurrying away, as his impatience prompted him to do, the
youth stood several minutes surveying the scene around him. The Sauk
village was asleep, and the scrutiny which he made of the collection of
wigwams failed to show a single star-like twinkle of light. The night
was clear, and a gibbous moon was high in the sky. Patches of clouds
drifted in front of the orb, and fantastic shadows whisked across the
clearing and over the wigwams and trees. The dwellings of the Indians
looked unsightly and misshapen in the shifting light, and Jack felt as
though he were gazing upon a village of the dead.

Turning to the southward, he faced the narrow, winding river. From the
front of the chieftain's lodge, he caught the glimmer of its surface
and the murmur of its flow, as it swept by in the gloom on its way to
the distant Gulf. A soft roa