d of two dark forms gliding, gliding, gliding so softly, so
surely, so surely toward the forest. Only the moon and the pale
stars had eyes to see these creeping figures.

Like avengers they moved, on a mission to slay and to save!

On over the dark line where plain merged into forest they crawled.
No whispering, no hesitating; but a silent, slow, certain progress
showed their purpose. In single file they slipped over the moss, the
leader clearing the path. Inch by inch they advanced. Tedious was
this slow movement, difficult and painful this journey which must
end in lightninglike speed. They rustled no leaf, nor snapped a
twig, nor shook a fern, but passed onward slowly, like the approach
of Death. The seconds passed as minutes; minutes as hours; an entire
hour was spent in advancing twenty feet!

At last the top of the knoll was reached. The Avenger placed his
hand on his follower's shoulder. The strong pressure was meant to
remind, to warn, to reassure. Then, like a huge snake, the first
glided away.

He who was left behind raised his head to look into the open place
called the glade of the Beautiful Spring. An oval space lay before
him, exceedingly lovely in the moonlight; a spring, as if a pearl,
gemmed the center. An Indian guard stood statuelike against a stone.
Other savages lay in a row, their polished heads shining. One
slumbering form was bedecked with feathers and frills. Near him lay
an Indian blanket, from the border of which peered two faces,
gleaming white and sad in the pitying moonlight.

The watcher quivered at the sight of those pale faces; but he must
wait while long moments passed. He must wait for the Avenger to
creep up, silently kill the guard, and release the prisoners without
awakening the savages. If that plan failed, he was to rush into the
glade, and in the excitement make off with one of the captives.

He lay there waiting, listening, wrought up to the intensest pitch
of fierce passion. Every nerve was alert, every tendon strung, and
every muscle strained ready for the leap.

Only the faint rustling of leaves, the low swish of swaying
branches, the soft murmur of falling water, and over all the sigh of
the night wind, proved to him that this picture was not an evil
dream. His gaze sought the quiet figures, lingered hopefully on the
captives, menacingly on the sleeping savages, and glowered over the
gaudily arrayed form. His glance sought the upright guard, as he
stood a dark blot