The war-whoop pealed forth again, shriller, fiercer, and many a bloodthirsty glare was turned upon Vipan from a hundred pairs of eyes, as the maddened barbarians revolved in their frenzied rout. But he never quailed. The fascination was complete. And through it he noted two things. Both scalps were fresh. Hardly a week had passed since they grew upon the heads of their owners--and one of them was plentifully covered with a thick crop of red hair. A voice at his side, speaking in quiet tones, broke the spell. "Golden Face should be hungry and tired. Will he not come in, and rest and eat?" Turning, he beheld Red Cloud. The latter's eyes wandered from his to the crowd of furious dancers with a meaning there was no mistaking. Without a word he turned and strolled away with the chief. CHAPTER NINE. SOME OLD CORRESPONDENCE. Mr Santorex and his daughter were seated in the former's own especial sanctum, busily engaged in sorting and destroying old letters and papers. The room was a pleasant one, somewhat sombre perhaps--thanks to its panelling of dark oak--but the window commanded a lovely view of the Lant valley. Round the room stood cabinet cupboards, enclosing collections of insects, birds' eggs, plants, etc., and surmounted by a number of glass cases containing stuffed birds and animals. Fishing-rods on a rack, a few curiosities of savage weapons, and a portrait or two adorned the walls. "Had enough of it, Chickie? Rather a sin to keep you boxed up here this lovely morning, isn't it?" "No, father, of course it isn't. Besides, we are nearly at the end of these `haunting memories of bygone days,' aren't we? or we shall be by lunch-time, anyhow." It was indeed a lovely morning. The sweet spring air, wafting in at the window, floated with it the clear song of larks poised aloft in the blue ether, the bleating of young lambs disporting amid the buttercups on the upland pastures, and many another note of the pleasant country blending together in harmonious proportion. "`Haunting memories,' eh?" replied Mr Santorex, seeming to dwell somewhat over the sheaf of yellow and timeworn papers he held in his hand. "Instructive--yes. A record of the average crop of idiocies a man sows in earlier life under the impression that he is doing the right thing. Acting under a generous impulse, I believe it is called."