"What have you to fear? you are young, stout, and well armed; are you not capable of protecting yourself?" "No, because I am pursued by implacable enemies. Last night they inflicted on me horrible and degrading torture, and I only managed with great difficulty to escape from their clutches. This morning accident brought me across two of these men. On seeing them a species of raging madness possessed me; the idea of avenging myself occurred to me; I aimed at them, and fired, and then fled, not knowing whither I was going, mad with rage and terror; on reaching this spot I fell, crushed and exhausted, as much through the sufferings I endured this night, as through the fatigues caused by a long and headlong race along abominable roads. These men are doubtless pursuing me; if they find me--and they will do so, for they are wood-rangers, perfectly acquainted with the desert--they will kill me without pity; my only hope is in you, so in the name of what you hold dearest on earth, save me! Save me, and my gratitude will be unbounded." The stranger had listened to this long and pathetic pleading without moving a muscle of his face. When the monk ceased, with breath and argument equally exhausted, he rested the butt of his rifle on the ground. "All that you say may be true," he answered drily, "but I care as little for it as I do for a flash in the pan; get out of the affair as you think proper, for your entreaties are useless; if you knew who I am, you would very soon give up tormenting my ears with your jabbering." The monk fixed a terrified look on the strange man, not knowing what to say to him, or the means he should employ to reach his heart. "Who are you then?" he asked him, rather for the sake of saying something than in the hope of an answer. "Who I am?" he said, with an ironical smile, "You would like to know. Very good, listen in your turn; I have only a few words to say, but they will ice the blood in your veins with terror; I am the man called the White Scalper, the Pitiless one!" The monk tottered back a few paces, and clasped his hands with an effort. "Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, frenziedly; "I am lost!" At this moment the hoot of an owl was heard a short distance off. The hunter started. "Some one was listening to us!" he exclaimed, and rushed rapidly to the side whence the signal came, while the monk, half dead with terror, fell on his knees, and addressed a fervent prayer to Heaven. CHAPTER XXIII. THE WHITE SCALPER. We must now stop our story for a little while, in order to give the reader certain details about the strange man whom we introduced in our previous chapter, details doubtless very incomplete, but still indispensable to the proper comprehension of facts that have to follow.