An answering yell came from the other side of the glade, and the woods rang and re-echoed with the blood-curdling cry. Miles was struggling madly beneath me to rise. "It is the Indians!" he cried. "Up!--let me go!" Dunraven sprang to his feet. "It is the Cherokees!" He rushed to where the limp body of Margaret lay, and catching her up in his arms, sword in hand, he dashed out of the grove. "Save yourselves!" he shouted to his men. "As for myself, I must rescue the lady." The others were still struggling frantically with me, their only thought to escape. With another series of deafening yells, two figures sprang out of the trees and made for us. One of them was Winona, I knew her by her short petticoat, and the other--yes, the firelight shone on his face an instant as he darted by--it was Manteo. The Indian with whom I fought had broken loose from me, and now dashed forward. I saw him rush upon Manteo. The two grappled together, and fell rolling and struggling on the ground. Miles, to whom terror had lent the strength of despair, was fighting manfully to free himself. His hand came in contact with the stone tomahawk which the Indian had dropped in his fight with me; his fingers closed over the handle, and raising it with all his strength, he brought it down upon my left arm, where I held him by the hair, while with my right I pinned his body down. My arm fell limp and helpless to the ground. With a plunge he broke loose from me, and springing up he bounded full into the arms of Winona, who caught him around the waist, and with a howl of terror he fought to break away. I leaped to my feet. Dunraven had disappeared with Margaret. I heard him crashing through the woods a hundred yards away, as he ran at the top of his speed. I dashed away in the direction of the sound, my arm dangling by my side. But I heeded it not, as like a hound at the heels of his quarry, I tore through trees and bushes, bareheaded and disheveled, after Lord Dunraven. It seemed as though I crawled at the speed of an ant, and yet I know now, that I ran as I had never done before. Now I rushed through level plains, upon which the moonlight cast the shadows of the tall trees in strange fantastic shapes; then I would tear my way through a dense thicket, or splash into the water of some babbling brook and up a little knoll. At last I caught sight of Dunraven. My eye glimpsed the flutter of Margaret's dress, as with her upon his shoulder, he was running at the top of his speed, below me some fifty yards away. Encumbered by the lady and bleeding from several wounds, he was losing ground at every step, and with a loud curse he shifted the limp body of Margaret to his other shoulder, and halted a moment to shake a clenched fist at me.