He worked feverishly and, having learned the knack of the job, made better time in cutting to the embedded end of the second bar. The sun by this time had waded deep into the forest and the film of shadow over the village blurred objects a few rods from the cabin. The guard began grumbling in a minor tone and walked a dozen feet from the cabin and stared impatiently toward the fires in front of the slave-quarters. The slaves were singing and dancing about the fires, and the warrior grew very peevish. The third bar was ready to be forced clear. The guard stalked back in front of the window but never bothered to give it a glance. Turning abruptly and grumbling more forcefully, he retraced his steps and walked some distance from the cabin. Now Sevier caught the wild melody of a slave drawing near, singing, perhaps to bolster up his courage. The Indian called sharply to him. The man came on slowly, his song hushed. The Indian went to meet him and paused to warn him not to leave the cabin until relieved. The slave slowly came on, bearing a steaming dish in one hand, his other nervously feeling of the knife in his rawhide belt. The fourth bar was cut free at the lower end. Standing to one side of the window, his strips of blanket in one hand, Sevier thrust the two knives into his belt to have a hand free for receiving the pan when it came through the slot. He heard the slave halt at the end of the cabin near the door. He thought he caught the murmur of voices. The discovery startled him, although it was possible the slave was muttering to himself. Then he stiffened and his jaws clamped together as there came a muffled groan and the thud of a heavy body falling to the ground. His first thought was that Kirk Jackson, unable to break through the Creek and Cherokee lines, had doubled back and was to repay his debt by setting him free. A moment of silence, then the sound of a heavy body being dragged to the door. The next moment the window was blocked by a man’s head and shoulders. “Sevier,” whispered a low voice. “Where are you?” Had it been Jackson, the door would have been thrown open immediately. Turning his head away, Sevier fiercely whispered— “On the bed.” And plucking a knife from his belt he tossed it on the straw. “I can make you out now!” hissed Polcher, reaching his pistol far between the bars. “—— you! This is where I win!” He fired and found his arm caught in an iron grip. A hand was fumbling at his head. He essayed to throw it off but decided its efforts were weak and futile, and he believed he had wounded his man. To make sure he reached his free hand for his second pistol. The grip on his right wrist was amazingly strong for a wounded man. A panic seized him as the pistol caught. Then something touched the back of his neck, pressed against the sides, began crowding his Adam’s apple. He tried to shriek. From a great distance came Sevier’s metallic voice, crying: