joice too much at his sufferings; he would die as they
were taught to die, and he would show to them that the mind of a white boy
could supply the place of a red man's physical fortitude. But Henry might
come! Would he come? Oh, would he come? Resigned to death, Paul yet hoped
for life.

He opened his eyes, and the warriors were still standing there, looking at
him; but in a moment one approached, and, bending down, began to strike
flint and steel amid the dry leaves at the boy's feet. Again, despite
himself, the shivering chill ran through Paul's veins. Would Henry come?
If he came at all, he must now come quickly, as only a few minutes were
left.

The leaves were obstinate; sparks flew from the flint and steel, but there
was no blaze. Paul looked down at the head of the warrior who worked
patiently at his task. The second warrior stood on one side, watching, and
when Paul glanced at him he saw the savage move ever so little, but as if
driven by a sudden impulse, and then raise his head in the attitude of one
who listened intently. Heat replaced the ice in Paul's veins. Had
something moved in the forest? Was it Henry? Would he come?

The standing warrior uttered a low sound, and he who knelt with the flint
and steel raised his head. Something had moved in the forest! It might be
Henry. For Paul, the emotions of a life were concentrated in a single
moment. Fear and hope tripped over each other, and the wilderness grew
dim to his sight. A myriad of little black specks danced before his eyes,
and the blood was beating a quick march in his ears.

The two savages were motionless, as if carved of brown marble, and over
all the wilderness hung silence. Then out of the silence came a sharp
report, and the warrior who stood erect, rifle in hand, fell to the earth,
stricken by instant death. Henry had come! His faithful comrade had not
failed him! Paul shouted aloud in his tremendous relief and joy, forgetful
of the second warrior.

The kneeling savage sprang to his feet, but he had made a fatal mistake.
To light the fire for the torture, he had left his rifle leaning against
the trunk of a tree twenty feet away, and before he could regain it a
terrible figure bounded from the bushes, the figure of a great youth, clad
in buckskin, his face transformed with anger and his eyes alight. Before
the savage could reach his weapon he went down, slain by a single blow of
a clubbed rifle, and the next moment Henry was cutting Paul loo