For a new factor has appeared on the scene. Stealing around the slope of the hill, out of sight of the horseman, but so that a few minutes will bring them suddenly upon him, come nearly a score of mounted figures. Their plumed heads and long lances show them to be Indians, their painted faces and the fantastic trappings of their ponies show them to be warriors on the war-path. Their stealthy glide, as nearer and nearer they advance upon their wholly unconscious victim, leaves no doubt whatever as to their present intentions. Indeed, the observers can plainly distinguish the exultant grin on each cruel countenance as the warriors exchange glances or signals. A few moments, and the solitary horseman will ride right into their midst. "Oh, can nothing be done to save him?" cried Yseulte Santorex, clasping her hands in the intensity of the situation. "I'm afraid, under present circumstances--nothing," was the reply, given with a calmness that outraged and exasperated her. "What! I should never have believed it of you, Mr Vipan," she cried, her eyes flashing with indignation. "I should never have believed that you--you of all men--would stand by and see a fellow-creature barbarously done to death, and make no effort to save him, or even to warn him." There was a strange look in Vipan's eyes as he met her scornful and angry glance--full and unflinchingly. "Should you not!" he replied. "Well, then, I would stand by and see a hetacomb of `fellow-creatures' done to death, if the alternative lay in exposing you to serious danger." "Forgive me," she said, hurriedly, and in a softer tone. "But leave me out of the question, and let us try and save him. See! There are not many Indians; we can surely do something. Oh! It is too late!" The stranger's horse was seen suddenly to stop short, pause, swerve, then start forward with a bound that nearly left his rider rolling on the plain. He had scented the Indians, who at the same moment appeared within a few hundred yards of the white man. Feigning astonishment at the suddenness of the meeting, one of the foremost warriors called out in broken English: "How! White brother not run away. We good Injun--damn good Injun! Stop!--say `how.' Smoke pipe--eat heap `chuck'! Damn good Injun, we! White brother--stop!" But the "white brother," though obviously a greenhorn, was not quite so soft as that. For all answer he dug the spurs into the sides of his nag in such wise as materially to increase the distance between himself and the savages. The latter, baulked of an easy and bloodless capture, together with the rare sport of putting a prisoner to death amid all manner of slow and ingenious tortures, cast all pretence to the winds, as they darted in pursuit.