an had recourse to a weapon with which her
broad bosom was at all times furnished. She drew a large pin, and drove
the point into Elephant's flank. The result was instantaneous. Up went
his hindquarters, and Peg found herself sprawling on his bushy mane.
She held on to that, however, and, gradually working her way back,
regained her old position--thankful that she had not been thrown to the
ground.

Another result was that Elephant condescended to walk. But this was not
enough. Escape at such a pace was impossible. Old Peg prodded him
again--this time on the shoulder, for she rightly conjectured that he
could not well kick up with his fore-legs. But he might rear! The
thought caused her to grasp the bushy mane with both hands and hold on.
He did not rear, but he trotted, and poor Old Peg came to the conclusion
that there were disagreeable novelties in life, even for her.

When Elephant at length burst out of the fringe of wood and gained the
track that followed the course of the river, she was immediately seen by
the plunderers, who laughed at the strange rider but did not follow her,
with the exception of one man--an Indian, painted and feathered,--who
started in pursuit, hoping, possibly, for an easy scalp.

He soon came close up, and, being armed with a bow, sent an arrow in
advance of him. The shaft was well aimed. It grazed the flank of
Elephant, inflicting a painful wound. This woke up the old horse
surprisingly, so that it not only broke into a gallop, but set off at
racing speed as it used to do when young. The Indian was badly mounted,
and gradually lost ground, whereupon he sent after the fugitives several
more arrows which all fell wide of the mark.

The change to Old Peg was as a reprieve from death! The trot had almost
dislocated her bones, and shaken her up like an addled egg, and the
change to racing speed afforded infinite relief. She could scarcely
credit her senses, and she felt a tendency to laugh again as she glanced
over her shoulder. But that glance removed the tendency, for it
revealed the Indian warrior, in all his paint and feathers and streaming
scalp-locks, in hot pursuit, while the whiz of another arrow close past
her ear convinced our heroine that it was not a dream.

The jolting to which the poor old creature was subjected had disturbed
her costume not a little. Her shawl came nearly off, and, holding on by
one pin, fluttered like a flag of defiance. Her slippers, which