sinking into the dark forest. He was inexpressibly lonely, as if forsaken
of men. Savage life still left him untouched. It made no appeal to him
anywhere, and he longed for Wareville, and his kind, which he was now sure
he would never see again. Behind him rose the usual hum of the
village--the barking of dogs, the chatter of squaws, and the occasional
grunt of a warrior. In their way, these people were cheerful. Unlike Paul,
they were living the only life they knew and liked, and had no thoughts of
a better.

The lonely boy rose from the rock and walked back toward the pole hut, in
which they fastened him every night. It had become a habit with him now,
and he knew that it saved useless resistance and a lot of trouble. Had he
taken a single step toward the forest instead of his own prison hut, a
score of watchful eyes would have been upon him.

The twilight melted into the dark, and fires gleamed here and there in the
village. Dusky figures passed before and behind the fires--those of squaws
cooking the suppers. Paul's eyes wandered, idle and unobserving, over the
savage scene, and then he uttered a little cry of impatience as a hulking
warrior lurched against him. The man seemed to have tripped upon a root,
an unusual thing for these sure-footed sons of the forest, and Paul drew
back from him. But the savage recovered himself, and in a low voice said:

"Paul!"

Paul Cotter started violently. It was the first word in good English that
he had heard in a time that seemed to be eternity--save those of Braxton
Wyatt, whom he hated--and the effect upon him was overpowering. It was
like a voice of hope coming suddenly from another world.

"Paul," continued the voice, now warningly, "don't speak. Go on to your
hut. Friends are by."

Then the hulking and savage figure walked away, and Paul knew enough to
take no apparent notice, but to continue on as if that welcome voice Had
not come out of the darkness. Yet a thousand little pulses within him were
throbbing, throbbing with joy and hope.

But whose was the voice? In his excitement he had not noticed the tone
except to note that it was a white man's. He glanced back and saw the
hulking form near the outskirts of the village, but the light was too dim
to disclose anything. Henry? No, it was not Henry's figure. Then who was
it? A friend, that was certain, and he had said that other friends were
by.

Paul walked with a light step to his prison hut, sedulously seeking to