The guides separated, each going to his own wigwam, and the chief signified that the strangers would be expected to share a banquet with him over his particular fire. The food was good, the chief and his own special cronies who sat with him very hospitable and entertaining. Bed-time came, and two tents were placed at the guests' disposal, Lord, of course, arranging a system of "watches" to guard against surprise. But no surprise came; the night passed quietly and peacefully, and the Englishman was at a loss to understand the fears and suspicions of the Indians. But while he was washing at a stream close at hand, one of the Canadians joined him. "I've got at their mystery, I think," he said in a whisper. "Ah?" "Chinese prisoners; three of 'em. I've been talking to one while you were having your breakfast. I take it that this is a refuge-camp for all the rascality of the neighbourhood. John Chinaman tells me that the whole crew are 'wanted' at Vancouver for sundry attacks on the mining camps. Why, these are some of the varmints who burnt Thomson's store last year." Lord finished his ablutions and sat down to discuss the position, which was certainly not a pleasant one. In a sense, he was on his honour not to betray his entertainers; yet, as a Government servant, it seemed to be his duty either to arrest the chief or else lay information against him. Moreover, though the few Chinamen he had met had not impressed him favourably, his blood boiled at the notion of slavery on British soil, and of the unnameable cruelties to a captive of which the redskins were capable. Before he could arrive at any decision, however, a terrible scream resounded through the camp, and both men rushed towards the wigwams. On the ground lay a Chinaman, pierced by an arrow, and Lord saw at a glance that he was dead. "The brutes," muttered his companion. "That's the poor beggar's punishment for breaking out and speaking to me." Lord called to his men and then rounded on the chief, who was hurriedly approaching. "Where are the other two prisoners?" he said. "You must hand them over to me. I am a warrior of the White Queen's, and can have every one of you hanged.--No, no; I'll have no secret discussions. If you disobey the Queen you are no longer my friends. (Look out, you fellows!)" In another moment he had pulled a revolver from his pocket and was covering the chief. "I give you one minute in which to bring out the other prisoners." Bows or muskets were hastily raised, but the Canadians had unslung their rifles like lightning, and were grouped behind Lord ready to fire on the first man who dared to aim at him. The chief shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and ordered the prisoners to be produced. They soon appeared, unbound but strongly guarded, and, in pidgin English, told how, a few days before, their camp near the sea had been raided, their employers put to flight, and themselves brought away to slavery.