as it came down and
then flung it a couple of rods to one side.

"The Shawanoe needs no weapon to conquer the Blackfoot squaw!"

Then Deerfoot voluntarily placed himself in front of the furious
warrior, without any weapon with which to defend himself. Not only
that, he folded his arms over his breast and with biting irony added:

"Now let the Blackfoot think he has a squaw in front of him; then he
will strike hard, if his hand does not tremble."

It was more than flesh and blood could stand. The passion within the
breast of the chief broke into a volcano-like flame. With a hissing
gasp he sprang forward, striking swiftly with his knife, first
downward, then upward and then from side to side, as if he meant to cut
the execrated youth into ribbons. He repeated the wild blows with a
celerity that almost prevented the eye from following the movements.

But, as before, he split only vacancy. Deerfoot easily eluded the
strokes, which were blinder than usual, for Taggarak was beside himself
with passion. In the midst of his aimless outburst the Shawanoe did
another thing which was worthy of a skilled pugilist. Waiting for an
opening, he shot his left hand forward, and, with the open palm, landed
a stunning blow on the bridge of the chief's nose. The advantage of
such a blow is that, when rightly delivered, tears are forced into the
eyes of the one receiving it, who, for a minute or two, is partially
blinded. You can understand his fatal position. He cannot pause to
clear his vision, for it comes at the crisis of the fight, and an
instant halting means ignominious defeat, while to persevere, when he
has only the partial use of his sight, makes his disadvantage hardly
the less.

While the chief was savagely blinking, in order to enable him to see,
the crowning taunt of all sounded in his ears:

"The Blackfoot cries like a pappoose. Does he wish to tread the Spirit
Circle? Does he beg the Shawanoe to be merciful to him? If he whines
for pity, let him sink on his knees and the Shawanoe will listen to his
crying."

Chief Taggarak now lost the last shred of self-control. With a growl of
crazy rage he bounded forward again, striking up and down and right and
left with a blind, venomous energy that would have exhausted a giant.

Suddenly the wrist which held the whistling blade was seized in the
steel-like fingers of Deerfoot's left hand. The grip was fearful, for
the Shawanoe had now called upon his last reserve of strengt