of fate!) in the blades of some there was a familiar
stamp--H. B. C.!

"Ah! Yuagh!" called the sachem, and two young men stepped forward, toe
on the line, glanced each at a framed picture, drew up an arm, and,
"Whut-t-t t-e-e-p," whined two knives that flittered through the light
and struck quivering, one with its cool kiss on McElroy's cheek, the
other just in the edge of the slab at De Courtenay's shoulder.

A shout of derision greeted this throw, and two more took the place of
the retiring braves, this time a Runner of the Burnt Woods, wearing the
garments of the white man, but smeared with bars of red and yellow paint
across the cheeks, and a white renegade.

"A Nor'wester's man once," thought McElroy; "another DesCaut."

Again the "whut-t" of the whimpering blades, again the little impact
in the wood behind, this time with more indifferent aim; for never was
white man yet who sank or rose to Indian level in the matter of spear or
tomahawk.

They were brave men, these two, and they faced the singing knives
without a quiver of muscle, a droop of eye, while the joy of the
savages, at last turned loose, rose and rose in its wildness.

For an hour the mob at the line threw and shifted, the vast circle
sitting or standing in every attitude of keenest enjoyment. The slabs
bristled with steel, to be cleaned and decorated anew, while the fire in
the centre leaped and crackled with an hundred voices.

A stone's-throw away the grim tepee of the dead chief glimmered now out
of the shadow, now in, and to the east behind a rocky bluff, through
which led a narrow gorge, the river hurried to the north.

Blood-painted brilliant splotches here and there against the white
pictures, but neither man was limp in his bonds, neither fair head
drooped, neither pair of blue eyes flinched. De Courtenay's long curls
hung like cords of gold against his bare shoulder, enhancing the
great beauty of him, while his brilliant smile flashed with uncanny
steadiness. McElroy's face was grave, lips tight, eyes narrow, and
forehead furrowed with the thought he strove in vain to make connected.

Suddenly every shade of colour drained out of his countenance, leaving
it white as the virgin slab behind.

On the outskirts of the concourse, just at the edge of shadow and light,
Edmonton Ridgar stood apart and the look on his face was of mortal
agony. As his eyes met those of his factor all doubt was swept away.
This was his friend, McElroy knew in