And that they were doomed we knew full well. The savages were counting on torturing them where we might have a full view of the horrible spectacle, and we could not hope anything would happen to prevent it. On the evening previous Simon Kenton had told us the story of a settler who was beset even as we were then, and whose nearest neighbor was tortured at the stake within his range of vision that the helpless man might see what was in store for him when he could no longer make any defense. While hearing the story it was impossible for me to realize how agonizing must have been the position of the besieged man. Now I understood it keenly, and resolved not to look out from that side of the house again, lest the painted fiends should begin their horrible work before night came. Mother knew from our conversation what it was we gazed at, and remained nearabout the fireplace striving to choke back the sobs of grief and sympathy which shook her frame. After gazing upon the helpless captives five minutes or more, as if to picture indelibly upon his mind all the surroundings, Simon Kenton began moving to and fro across the end of the room, not on the alert against the enemy, but apparently plunged in deep thought. After a time he said curtly to me: "Keep a lookout on either side, lad, for some of the snakes may grow careless, an' you will get a shot." Then he fell to pacing to and fro again, and after what seemed a very long time of most painful silence, said to me as if announcing the most commonplace fact: "I count on lendin' a hand to those poor fellows yonder." "Lending a hand!" I repeated in amazement. "Haven't you declared it was impossible to leave this house without being shot down?" "Yes, an' I reckon that comes pretty near being the truth." "Then how may you give them any assistance?" "I am not countin' on tryin' to do anything just now. There's like to be plenty of time, for unless something happens to interrupt the curs, they will not torture the prisoners until evening. When the sun goes down I shall creep out." "And then is the time when the Indians will keep a closer watch," I ventured to say. "Ay, lad, you are right, and yet we must contrive to outwit them. Instead of openin' the door, I'll make my way through the small window at the rear, which can be the better guarded by you and your mother while the shutter is unfastened." "I shall go with you," I said, speaking on impulse, and hardly realizing the meaning of the words. "You'll do nothing of the kind. Your duty is here, and mine there." CHAPTER III. THE VENTURE. I could not believe Simon Kenton would dare to make the venture of which he had spoken, for of a verity it seemed no less than the killing of one's self.