Wagh! The white fox is a great brave, let him sing his death-song! Why does he whine like a sick papoose because he is afraid to die like a warrior of the Montauks? Poniute has spoken."

Guy realised but too well that his pleading would be of no avail, and in his desperation he tore the covering from his breast and spread out his arms.

"I can die! Let the red warrior strike! Let him plunge his knife in my heart!"

"Let the white wolf howl his death-song!" returned Poniute, grimly.

With the strength born of frenzy the dying man tottered to his feet, and groped his way a few paces, only to fall in a heap upon the very edge of the fen.

Help! help! Gordon, come-come nearer! Have you been sent from the world of spirits to take me from the clutches of my tormentor?" he gasped, groping as if to grasp a shadowy form, the phantom he imagined hovering almost within his reach; but the spectral vision floated away as if borne on a current of air, and only the Indian hunter, seated upon a spur of rock near at hand, remained.

Minutes passed, ages of torture, the moans suddenly ceased, a wild, exultant cry pealed out, the watcher sprang to his feet. His enemy lay dead.

Poniute crouched for a moment above his fallen foe, his left hand closed over a lock of the soft, curling hair that had been Guy Kingsland's pride, his right hand clasped the haft of his knife.

The next instant the Indian glided away, a scalp hanging at his girdle. Heather Flower's behest had been accomplished.

The storm burst in its fury, a cold, cutting sleet swept in slanting needle-points as it lashed the face of the dead.

CHAPTER XLVIII

MAH-CHON-IT-CHUGE

"Away to the dismal swamp he speeds,
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before;

And when, at night, he sank to sleep,

If slumber his eyelids knew,

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Her venomous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew."

EARIED with the day's sport, that had
been rewarded but with indifferent suc-
cess, the hunters gathered upon a little
knoll that had been designated as the

place of meeting.

"Where the devil is Kingsland?" inquired Tom Roswell, as he shaded his eyes with his hand and peered through the dim greenness of the pines.

Now I bethink, I've not heard the report of his firelock for the deuce of a time. He should be within earshot. Pipe up, Captain, and call him in."

Gardiner raised the bugle horn to his lips and blew a shrill blast that echoed and re-echoed through the forest aisles.

"That will bring him in," quoth Monckton. "That blare was enough to wake the dead."

Aye, he'll be here presently. He is nimble of foot and strong of limb. Doubtless he was hot on the chase and the quarry took him a good bit of a

distance, and, if I mistake not, he intends to bag the biggest game by himself," returned Gardiner.

The lad has a spice of selfishness in his composition, or I don't read the signs," muttered Monckton, but Captain Gardiner caught the drift.

"Ambitious is the better word, Captain," he corrected. "He's a good sort, is the lad."

66

Umph!" commented Monckton, under his breath, "he's a Kingsland, and I never quite liked the stock. Easy-going to laziness, at times, but keen as a brier when self-interest prompts to actionchip of the old block," then aloud, he added, "Is there danger from savage wild beasts in these forests? If I recollect aright, I have been told there are some formidable animals in the colonies." "Bears are plenty, wolves numerous-both are savage, so much so that a bounty is offered for every wolf's head. They hunt in packs for their prey, and together are bold. It is no joke to find one's self surrounded by a pack of snarling wolves, especially in the night, when they come from their dens; alone the brutes are arrant sneaks. Kingsland is safe enough unless he has got lost in some swamp.'

The echoes of the winding horn had died away. It was still oppressively still, the night was falling swiftly, the sun had sunk and in place of the amber and opal twilight a grey veil was sweeping over forest and sea.

"We improved the only day of pleasant weather, for there's a squall bottled in yon ugly-looking clouds," commented Captain Monckton, uneasily. "If we don't get a hurricane out o' yon black windcaps, I'm no sailor. 'Twill blow great guns before another hour is gone. Give another blast o' the horn, for there's no time to waste an' we get safely aboard the Highflyer before the blow comes.

Gardiner gave a bugle call that reverberated through the dim arcades like a trumpet call to battle, winding in waves of sound and dying away in a longdrawn wail.

"He'll hear that if he is within the radius of miles," remarked Gardiner.

Aye, man, there's his answering halloa," exclaimed Monckton, cheerily.

The faint, distant cry was repeated, long and melancholy, from the heart of the woods, and Gardiner's face fell.

"Faugh! it is but the hoot of an owl! I wonder what's to do o' the lad-I fear he may be lost. Shall we look about a bit?" he asked.

"Should we be likely to come across him in this bloody tangle?" asked Monckton. "I imagine it is the surer plan to remain here and try to signal him. This is the precise spot where we parted company, or rather he ran away from us, and it is good horse sense that he will look for us where we agreed to meet. Zounds! but he must be daft to loiter, and such a storm brewing!"

"Wind the bugle, an' it please you, Captain," put in Tom Roswell. "If the Lieutenant is lost the sound will guide him."

Blare after blare roared from the brazen-throated horn, with short intervals between the calls, and with heads bowed and palms at their ears the group listened intently, but no answering cry came back.

"What besotted idiots we are," suddenly exclaimed Gardiner, in a relieved tone. "It is all plain. The lad has seen the tempest rising and I make no doubt he scurried to the Indian village for shelter. He is thoroughly at home with the Montauks, and I'll wager a pound he is safely housed with old Wyandance. The old pagan won't turn him out, so

I'll e'en give another blast, and if it don't bring him we'll go aboard and make sail for the Isle o' Wight.'

Once more the horn brayed hoarsely, and they waited for a reply, which came not, and thoroughly convinced that Gardiner's theory was correct, they quickened their steps almost to a run on their way shoreward. As they gained their boat a strange and altogether unwonted scene greeted their vision. It was nearly dark, and from all directions the myriad waterfowls, of every species that frequented the surrounding waters, were flying seaward in the wildest disorder, and great clouds of them could be seen high in air, while dense flocks were scurrying along on swiftest wing just above the bosom of the turbid waters, all shaping their mad flight seaward, as if in terror, to escape the oncoming tempest.

What's the meaning of all this exodus, Gardiner?" called Monckton. "Looks demned near as if all the ducks in creation were on a migratory passage! Is not this an unusual occurrence at this season of the year?"

66

Zounds! you may well ask," responded Captain Gardiner. "In all the years I have spent in the colonies I have never witnessed anything like it; not that it is unusual to see such numbers, but such demoralisation is singular, for, although it is the habit of some of the varieties to go to sea at nightfall, most of them remain in shallow water." "There's

"So I supposed," replied Monckton. method in their madness, or rather their instinct, and if we reach yon island to-night it will be in the teeth. of a hurricane. Pull away, lads! the sooner we are alongside the better."

Aye, aye, sir," was the hearty response, as the hardy sailors gave way at the oars that sent the boat