my body was too sore to suffer me to sleep dreamlessly, but my dreams were pleasant. i thought i was in a sunny place with elspeth, and that she had braided a coronet of wild flowers for her hair. they were simple flowers, such as i had known in childhood and had not found in virginia—yarrow, and queen of the meadow, and bluebells, and the little eyebright. a great peace filled me, and ringan came presently to us and spoke in his old happy speech. 'twas to the accompaniment of elspeth's merry laughter that i wakened, to find myself in a dark, strange-smelling place, with a buffalo robe laid over me, and no stitch of clothing on my frame.

that wakening was bitter indeed. i opened my eyes to another day of pain and peril, with no hope of deliverance. for usual i am one of those who rise with a glad heart and a great zest for whatever the light may bring. now, as i moved my limbs, i found aches everywhere, and but little strength in my bones. slowly the events of the last day came back to me—the journey in the dripping woods, the fight in the ravine, the death of my comrade, the long horror of the hours of torture. no man can be a hero at such an awakening. i had not the courage of a chicken in my soul, and could have wept with weakness and terror.

i felt my body over, and made out that i had taken no very desperate hurt. my joints were swollen with the bonds, and every sinew seemed as stiff as wire. the skin had been scorched on my shins and feet, and was peeling off in patches, but the ointment which had been rubbed on it had taken the worst ache out of the wounds. i tottered to my feet, and found that i could stand, and even move slowly like an old man. my clothes had been brought back and laid beside me, and with much difficulty i got into them; but i gave up the effort to get my stockings and boots over my scorched legs. my pistols, too, had been restored, and ringan's sword, and the gold amulet he had entrusted to me. somehow, in the handling of me, my store of cartouches had disappeared from my pockets. my pistols were loaded and ready for use, but that was the extent of my defences, for i was no more good with ringan's sword than with an indian bow.

a young lad brought me some maize porridge and a skin of water. i could eat little of the food, but i drank the water to the last drop, for my throat was as dry as the nether pit. after that i lay down on my couch again, for it seemed to me that i would need to treasure every atom of my strength. the meal had put a little heart in me—heart enough to wait dismally on the next happening.

presently the chief whom they called onotawah stood at the tent door, and with him a man who spoke the powhatan tongue.

"greeting, brother," he said.

"greeting," i answered, in the stoutest tone i could muster.

"i come from the council of the young men, where the blood of our kin cries for the avenger. the sons of the west wind have seen the courage of the stranger, and would give him the right of combat as a free man and a brave. is my brother ready to meet our young men in battle?"

i was about as fit to right as an old horse to leap a fence, but i had the wit to see that my only hope lay in a bold front. at any rate, a clean death in battle was better than burning, and my despair was too deep to let me quibble about the manner of leaving this world.

"you see my condition," i said. "i am somewhat broken with travel and wounds, but, such as i am, i am willing to meet your warriors. send them one at a time or in battalions, and i am ready for them."

it was childish brag, but i think i must have delivered it with some spirit, for i saw approbation in his eye.

"when we fight, we fight not as butchers but as men-at-arms," he said. "the brother of one of the dead will take on himself the cause of our tribe. if he slay you, our honour is avenged. if he be slain, we save you alive, and carry you with us as we march to the rising sun."

"i am content," i said, though i was very little content. what earthly chance stood i against a lithe young brave, accustomed from his childhood to war? i thought of a duel hand-to-hand with knives or tomahawks, for i could not believe that i would be allowed to keep my pistols. it was a very faint-hearted combatant who rose and staggered after onotawah into the clear morning. the cloudy weather had gone, and the glen where we lay was filled with sun and bright colours. even in my misery i saw the fairness of the spectacle, and the cool plunge of the stream was grateful to my throbbing eyes.

the whole clan was waiting, a hundred warriors as tall and clean-limbed as any captain could desire. i bore no ill-will to my captors; indeed, i viewed them with a respect i had never felt for indians before. they were so free in their walk, so slim and upstanding, so hawklike in eye and feature, and withal so grave, that i could not but admire them. if the tidewater was to perish, 'twould be at the hands of no unworthy foes.

a man stood out from the others, a tall savage with a hard face, who looked at me with eyes of hate. i recognized my opponent, whom the chief called by some name like mayoga.

before us on the hill-side across the stream was a wood, with its limits cut as clear on the meadow as a coppice in a nobleman's park. 'twas maybe half a mile long as it stretched up the slope, and about the same at its greatest width. the shape was like a stout bean with a hollow on one side, and down the middle ran the gorge of a mountain stream.

onotawah pointed to the wood. "hearken, brother, to the customs of our race in such combats. in that thicket the twain of you fight. mayoga will enter at one end and you at the other, and once among the trees it is his business to slay you as he pleases and as he can."

"what, are the weapons?" i asked.

"what you please. you have a sword and your little guns."

mayoga laughed loud. "my bow is sufficient," he cried. "see, i leave knife and tomahawk behind," and he cast them on the grass.

not to be outdone, i took off my sword, though that was more an encumbrance than a weapon.

"i have but the two shots," i said.

"then i will take but the two arrows," cried my opponent, shaking the rest out of his quiver; and at this there was a murmur of applause. there were some notions of decency among these western indians.

i bade him take a quiverful. "you will need them," said i, looking as truculent as my chicken heart would permit me.

they took me to the eastern side of the wood, and there we waited for the signal, which was a musket shot, telling me that mayoga was ready to enter at the opposite end. my companions were friendly enough, and seemed to look on the duel as a kind of sport. i could not understand their tongue, but i fancy that they wagered among themselves on the issue, if, indeed, that was in doubt, or, at any rate, on the time before i should fall. they had forgotten that they had tortured me the night before, and one clapped me on the shoulder and seemed to encourage me. another pointed to my raw shins, and wound some kind of soft healing fibre round my feet and ankles. i did my best to keep a stout face, and when the shot came, i waved my hand to them and plunged boldly into the leafy darkness.

but out of the presence of men my courage departed, and i became the prey of dismal fear. how was i, with my babyish woodcraft, to contend for a moment against an indian who was as subtle and velvet-footed as a wild beast? the wood was mostly of great oaks and chestnuts, with a dense scrub of vines and undergrowth, and in the steepest parts of the hill-side many mossgrown rocks. i found every movement painful in that rough and matted place. for one thing, i made an unholy noise. my tender limbs shrank from every stone and twig, and again and again i rolled over with the pain of it. sweat blinded my eyes, and the fatigues of yesterday made my breath labour like a foundered horse.

my first plan—if the instinct of blind terror can be called a plan— was to lie hid in some thick place and trust to getting the first shot at my enemy when he found me. but i realized that i could not do this. my broken nerves would not suffer me to lie hidden. better the torture of movement than such terrible patience. so i groped my way on, starting at every movement in the thicket. once i roused a deer, which broke off in front of me towards my adversary. that would tell him my whereabouts, i thought, and for some time i lay still with a palpitating heart. but soon the silence resumed its sway, a deathlike silence, with far off the faint tinkle of water.

by and by i reached the stream, the course of which made an open space a few yards wide in the trees. the sight of its cool foaming current made me reckless. i dipped my face in it, drank deep of it, and let it flow over my burning legs. then i scrambled up the other bank, and entered my enemy's half of the wood. he had missed a fine chance, i thought, in not killing me by the water's edge; and this escape, and the momentary refreshment of the stream, heartened me enough to carry me some way into his territory.

the wood was thinner here, and the ground less cumbered. i moved from tree to tree, crawling in the open bits, and scanning each circle of green dusk before i moved. a red-bird fluttered on my right, and i lay long watching its flight. something moved ahead of me, but 'twas only a squirrel.

then came a mocking laugh behind me. i turned sharply, but saw nothing. far up in the branches there sounded the slow flap of an owl's flight. many noises succeeded, and suddenly came one which froze my blood—the harsh scream of a hawk. my enemy was playing with me, and calling the wild things to mock me.

i went on a little, and then turned up the hill to where a clump of pines made a darker patch in the woodland. all was quiet again, and my eyes searched the dusk for the sign of human life. then suddenly i saw something which stiffened me against a trunk.

forty paces off in the dusk a face was looking from behind a tree. it was to the west of me, and was looking downhill towards a patch of undergrowth. i noted the long feather, the black forelock, the red skin of the forehead.

at the sight for the first time the zest of the pursuit filled me, and i forgot my pain. had i outwitted my wily foe, and by some miracle stolen a march on him? i dared not believe it; but yet, as i rubbed my eyes, i could not doubt it. i had got my chance, and had taken him unawares. the face still peered intently downhill. i lifted a pistol, took careful aim, and fired at the patch of red skin.

a thousand echoes rang through the wood. the bullet had grazed the tree trunk, and the face was gone. but whither? did a dead man lie behind the trunk, or had a wounded man crawled into cover?

i waited breathlessly for a minute or two, and then went forward, with my second pistol at the cock.

there was nothing behind the tree. only a piece of red bark with a bullet hole through it, some greasy horsehair, and a feather. and then from many quarters seemed to come a wicked laughter, i leaned against the trunk, with a deadly nausea clutching at my heart. poor fool, i had rejoiced for a second, only to be dashed into utter despair!

i do not think i had ever had much hope, but now i was convinced that all was over. the water had made my burns worse, and disappointment had sapped the little remnants of my strength. my one desire was to get out of this ghoulish thicket and die by the stream-side. the cool sound of it would be a fitting dirge for a foolish fellow who had wandered far from his home.

i could hear the plunge of it, and struggled towards it. i was long past taking any care. i stumbled and slipped along the hill-side, my breath labouring, and a moaning at my lips from sheer agony and weakness. if an arrow sped between my ribs i would still reach the water, for i was determined to die with my legs in its flow.

suddenly it was before me. i came out on a mossy rock above a deep, clear pool, into which a cascade tumbled. i knelt feebly on the stone, gazing at the blue depths, and then i lifted my eyes.

there on a rock on the other side stood my enemy.

he had an arrow fitted to his bow, and as i looked he shot. it struck me on the right arm, pinning it just above the elbow. the pistol, which i had been carrying aimlessly, slipped from my nerveless hand to the moss on which i kneeled.

that sudden shock cleared my wits. i was at his mercy, and he knew it. i could see every detail of him twenty yards off across the water. he stood there as calm and light as if he had just arisen from rest, his polished limbs shining in the glow of the sun, the muscles on his right arm rippling as he moved his bow. madman that i was, ever to hope to contend with such dauntless youth, such tireless vigour! there was a cruel, thin-lipped smile on his face. he had me in his clutches like a cat with a mouse, and he was going to get the full zest of it. i kneeled before him, with my strength gone, my right arm crippled. he could choose his target at his leisure, for i could not resist. i saw the gloating joy in his eyes. he knew his power, and meant to miss nothing of its savour.

yet in that fell predicament god gave me back my courage. but i took a queer way of showing it. i began to whimper as if in abject fear. every limb was relaxed in terror, and i grovelled on my knees before him. i made feeble plucks at the arrow in my right arm, and my shoulder drooped almost to the sod. but all the time my other hand was behind my back, edging its way to the pistol. my fingers clutched at the butt, and slowly i began to withdraw it till i had it safe in the shadow of my pocket.

my enemy did not know that i was left-handed.

he fitted a second arrow to his bow, while his lips curved maliciously. all the demoniac, pantherlike cruelty of his race looked at me out of his deep eyes. he was taking his time about it, unwilling to lose the slightest flavour of his vengeance. i played up to him nobly, squirming as if in an agony of terror. but by this time i had got a comfortable posture on the rock, and my left shoulder was towards him.

at last he made his choice, and so did i. i never thought that i could miss, for if i had had any doubt i should have failed. i was as confident in my sureness as any saint in the mercy of god.

he raised his bow, but it never reached his shoulder. my left arm shot out, and my last bullet went through his brain.

he toppled forward and plunged into the pool. the grease from his body floated up, and made a scum on the surface.

then i broke off the arrow and pulled it out of my arm, putting the pieces in my pocket. the water cleared, and i could see him lying in the cool blue depths, his eyes staring, his mouth open, and a little dark eddy about his forehead.