well, with a company of officers from the Highflyer, under the guidance of Captain Gardiner and Guy, landed at Montauk for a day's hunt in the solemn woods.

The majority of the party were rather clumsy, those florid-faced, ginger-haired, heavy marines, mostly hard-drinkers, hard-swearers, but many of them sons of peers of the realm, a fox-hunting lot, to whom this deer hunt was a rare treat.

A fine doe had been sighted several times during the morning, but had successfully eluded her pursuers, until, at length, in the afternoon, Lieutenant Kingsland observed her line of retreat, and taking advantage of his knowledge, forelaid her, by which means he was enabled to secure a telling shot.

As she was crossing a densely wooded ridge, running to the wind, being hard hit and sorely wounded, she suddenly turned and made straight for a dense swamp encircling a small but deep lake.

Kingsland had quite lost sight of the fact that he was separated from his companions, and that their clumsy crash through the undergrowth had long since died away.

The afternoon was waning, night was coming on, the deathly silence of the forest reigned, but, eager to bag his quarry, he pursued in hot haste, trampling over damp brake and brier with great strides, and plunging recklessly into the green gloom of the interlaced woodland of hemlock and pine.

At every step the way grew more dismal among the tangled brown vines and tall dead spikes of cattails and rushes that rustled like the hiss of serpents in the rising breeze. On and on fled pursued and pursuer.

Kingsland saw nothing of the man-hunter close

upon his trail, a lithe Indian with eyes glaring, teeth clenched like a mastiff's, his black brow bent, his lips set wide in an open parallel, as he flitted in and out among the giant tree trunks with the sinuous movement of a tiger.

With all the persistence of a bloodhound, Poniute moved in the steps of the white man. Guy Kingsland must not live to leave the dismal swamp of Mah-chon-it-chuge; he must die this night and find a tomb in the black ooze where his feet were already miring.

There was no relenting in that savage breast, no dread of the work in hand, except the fear of possible failure, while, all unconscious of his impending doom, Guy plunged on through brake and bramble, sinking in the morass ankle-deep, expectant at every step to get sight of the wounded doe.

Nearer and nearer stole the avenger, and there, at the end of a vista through an arch of naked boughs, gazing intently across the sluggish waters of the forest lake, the victim had halted.

The silence was oppressive, the sun had hidden beneath the encircling ridge; the lake, black with brooding shadows, lay moveless, unruffled as a sheet of lead, sheltered from the wind that rioted beyond the hills, and seen through the twilight that reigned in the rocky bowl Guy's figure loomed up spectrally. Now and again some bird on lagging wing floated overhead, flitting across the leaden lake like an unquiet ghost, the only sign of life except the two human forms visible in the lonely spot far in the depths of the wildwood.

With noiseless movements the lurking savage fitted the envenomed arrow, the bow-string was drawn tense by the dark, sinewy hand until the tough bow was bent to its fullest.

One instant the red man stood, stern as death, terrible as doom.

"Look, white wolf, take a last look at earth and sky-you will never again see the Heather Flower, but your scalp will dry in the smoke of her lodgefire!"

The horrible words were spoken under his breath, as Poniute poised for the fatal aim.

Swift as the lightning's bolt the arrow sped, true to its mark, piercing the thick portion of the thigh, cleaving its way to the bone. Had the Indian aimed at his heart Guy Kingsland would never have realised his suffering.

With an angry oath he wrenched the deadly missile from the wound, and glared about to discover who the unseen archer might be, never dreaming that the sharp point carried with it, and had implanted enough of deadly virus to slay half-a-score of men.

The small incision made by the slender arrow, and the fact that it gave comparatively little pain, lulled the apprehension concerning the wound. He was no coward physically, and he pluckily set about the task of driving his ambushed enemy from cover, half-believing that it was a chance shot from some Indian hunter at wild game lurking in the

morass.

Not a living thing was in sight, neither man nor beast, and after beating about among the leafless brambles, and floundering across the dark bogs and sodden network of roots, he discovered, to his dismay, that he was lost in the jungle, and presently he felt a strange sensation of numbness in his feet, his skin became dry and hot, and soon a chilling ague crept over him.

Sharp pains began to dart through his frame like