Then began a race for life, which the spectators could not but watch with thrilling interest. Fortunately for the fugitive, his horse was an animal of blood and mettle, and seemed likely to show a good lead to the fleet war-ponies. But on the other hand the fugitive himself was an indifferent rider, and more than once, wholly unaccustomed to the tremendous pace, he would sway in the saddle, and only save himself by a hurried clutch at his steed's mane from being cast headlong to the earth. The whoops and yells of the savage pursuers sounded nearer and nearer in his ears, and the expression of his countenance, livid as with the dews of death, and eyeballs starting from their sockets, was that of such despairing horror as to turn one of the two spectators sick and faint. "There's just a chance for him," muttered Vipan, more to himself than to his companion. "If he takes the right fork of the valley he's a dead man--nothing can save him. If he takes the left, it'll bring him close under us, and I'll give him a hail." "Do, for the love of Heaven!" gasped the girl through her ashy lips. "God will help us, if we try and save this stranger." Along the valley-bottom swept this most engrossing of all hunts--a man-hunt. Whatever advantage the superiority of his horse afforded him the fugitive was throwing away by his own clumsiness; for wildly gripping the bridle to steady himself in his seat, he was checking and worrying his steed to a perilous extent. Bent low on the necks of their ponies, the savages were urging the latter to their utmost speed. Slowly but surely now they were gaining. But a minute more and the fugitive must choose--the right fork of the valley, away into certain death--the left, succour, possible safety. Suddenly a warrior, urging his steed in advance of the rest, literally flying over the ground, comes within fifty yards of the fugitive. Five--ten--another effort and he will be within striking distance. Then rising upright in his saddle the savage whirls a lasso in the air. Another moment and the fatal coil will have settled around the doomed man's shoulders. But it is not to be. A crack and a puff of smoke from the spectators' hiding-place. The distance is too great for accuracy of aim--six hundred yards if an inch--but the ball ploughs up the ground under the pony's feet, causing the animal to swerve and the rider to miss his cast. The warriors, disconcerted by this wholly unlooked-for danger, halt for a moment, gazing in the direction of the report. At the same time a stentorian voice calls out: "This way, stranger. This way, for your blessed soul, or you're a dead man!"