Four long hours the chase continued thus, until overtasked nature threatened to give way, and yield him to the tomahawk and scalping-knives of his enemies. Like some powerful engine, his heart was forcing the blood through his distended and throbbing veins, which were swollen to bursting with the mighty efforts of the chase. His breath came short and rapid, betokening a speedy termination of the race, unless a breathing spell was afforded him. An opportunity at last was offered, when, having, as he thought, outstripped his pursuers for a moment, he halted in a little lonely dell to recover his waning strength. His hope was destined to disappointment, however, for the circle closed in upon him, and the bust of an Indian presented itself at a slight opening in front. He raised his rifle to fire, but at that moment a shot from his rear admonished him that danger was all around; another took effect in his side, and warned him of the danger of delay. The Indian in front had disappeared, and he hastened forward, with the love of life still strong in his breast. The wound in his side bled freely, although only a flesh-wound, and therefore not dangerous nor painful. It served, however, to track him by, and, conscious of the fact, he managed to tear a strip from his hunting-shirt and staunch the blood. On, on went pursuer and pursued—over hill and dale, brook, stream-let and running stream—through brier and bramble, through field and wood—until the parched and burning tongue of the fugitive protruded from his mouth swelled to such distention as almost to stop his breathing. Exhausted nature could do no more; he threw himself prostrate on the bank of a tiny brook, resolved to yield the contest for the sake of a hearty draught of its clear, sparkling waters. He bathed his brow in the cool element, and drank deeply of its reviving virtues. Raising his head, he discovered the foremost of the now scattered and equally exhausted enemy, crossing the brow of a ridge over which he had just passed. The instinct of preservation was awakened afresh in his bosom at the sight; he started to his feet and raised his rifle, but failing strength would not allow of a certain aim, and an empty weapon would insure his death. Another moment, and he would be at the mercy of his enemy, without hope or chance of life. Again he raised his trusty rifle, and, steadying its barrel against a sapling, he secured his aim, fired, and the Indian fell headlong in death. Before the echoes of the report had died away in the neighboring hills, he beheld the remainder of the band of eager, hungry pursuers coming over the ridge; he then felt that his minutes indeed were numbered. Hidden partially by the tree behind which he stood, they did not discover him, however; and while they paused over the body of their fallen comrade, he made another attempt to fly. He staggered forward—fell—and, exerting his failing powers to the utmost, he managed to reach a thicket of young