Eleanor, rising, rocked it to and fro in her arms. The mother’s love was now unquestionably predominant. Handing the child to Margery Harvie, she spoke a few words to her father: “There is an herb which Manteo has shown me; boiled in water, it will restore her at once. I must get it.” “Nay, but—” “Oh, there is no danger. It grows but just behind the palisade. I go myself, for I alone can find it.” “I will go with you.” “No, stay here. Your presence is needed to encourage them. I will take two soldiers, if you so desire,” and she beckoned to a couple of fighting-men who sat near by. “Bring a lanthorn, concealed as best you can beneath your cloak.” She led the way to a rear entrance. As the soldiers unbarred the open door, a woman’s voice addressed her. “I go with you an I may. Two women are safer than one alone.” It was Gyll Croyden. Eleanor turned and looked into her face for an instant, then accepted her offer. “I thank you.” In another minute they were hastening silently to the palisade in single file, one of their guardians leading, the other bringing up the rear. With difficulty they groped their way to the southern entrance of the town, and, after a word to the sentry stationed there, passed out. Soon Eleanor, by the aid of the soldier’s lanthorn, was plucking leaves from a bush that grew not over a furlong from the town. They started to return, but paused, breathless, hearing a rustle of leaves behind them. Then, suddenly, a low whir, as of a bird’s wing, and the rearmost soldier fell on his face, dead. A long, slender arrow, the like of which they had never seen, quivered between his shoulder-blades, a shimmering reed in the lanthorn light. They broke into a run. Again the whisper of Death, and their second escort, struck in the hip, staggered and fell to his knees. At this Gyll Croyden, crying aloud for help, started forward again, but Eleanor had stopped to succor the wounded man. In that moment the two women heard a quick step behind them, and, before they could turn about, their arms were seized and pinioned at their backs. A silken kerchief fell like a thick veil over Eleanor’s eyes and tightened, but not so suddenly as to shut out the sight of a short, half-naked Indian, who was engaged in blindfolding Gyll Croyden. Then a voice, evidently from the man who had bandaged her own eyes, spoke in a low tone, and she recognized the accents with dismay. They were Frazer’s. “To the ravine, Towaye, and await me there.” His voice sank to a whisper, yet not too low for Eleanor’s quick ears. “Remember, no harm to them an you value life.” By now the wounded guardsman, having dragged himself toward Ralph, wildly drew his sword; then, painfully struggling to his knees, thrust in blind desperation, but only succeeded in pricking Frazer’s arm.