The gleam of fear and vengeance in her eyes died out, and she yielded to the support of her lover. In the mean time, Israel Ainesley was struggling to escape from the powerful clutches of Old Tumult, and the confusion they created now drew the attention of Town. and the maidens. Ainesley attempted to gain his feet, but each effort was attended with a blow from the fist of Old Tumult that sent him back to mother earth again. “Oh, Mr. Raynor!” cried Madge, “why do you treat Father Ainesley thus? He was a prisoner like us.” “Not a bit o’ it gal, ye blind leetle critter. He’s a cussed traitor. Didn’t ye see that he wer’n’t bound?” “But, he gave his word upon the honor of a Christian that he would not escape!” pleaded Clara. “But he drank from the flask with the Ingins, and that are a sure sign o’ thar bein’ in ca-hoots,” persisted Old Tumult. “But the Indians com_pelled_ him to,” said Madge. At this juncture Ainesley attempted, by a sudden leap, to get clear of the old scout, but Old Tumult was on the alert, and thrusting out his long arm and bony hand he clutched the aged hypocrite by the snowy beard in a vice-like grip. Ainesley surged backward like a stubborn horse, and losing his balance, fell heavily to the earth. But Old Tumult stood erect, his face elongated with surprise, for in his hand he still clutched the gray whiskers of Ainesley. He held them to the light and saw that they were _false whiskers_! Madge turned almost deadly pale, and a smothered cry burst from her lips. Clara involuntarily shrunk toward Town., with fear upon her sweet young face, while the young man himself seemed terribly agitated, as he gazed upon the fallen man. “Smoke o’ holy torture!” roared Old Tumult, and leaping forward he seized Ainesley and dragged him before the fire, then, in addition to the false whiskers already stripped from the villain’s face, he tore from his head the wig of snowy hair. The aged face of Israel Ainesley was no longer before them, but there was the face of one whom the settlers of Clontarf Post had hung in the forest long weeks before, and whom they supposed dead. It was the handsome, yet wicked face of the renegade, Dick Sherwood! CHAPTER VI. OUTWITTED. There was a momentary silence following the discovery of the existence of Dick Sherwood, in which time the bony fingers of Old Tumult became almost buried in the flesh of the renegade. “Easy, Tumult, easy!” cried the supposed defunct villain, with a nonchalant air. “I’ll give up the ghost since you’ve stripped me of my reverend face and snowy locks.” “Essence of sin!” exclaimed the scout; “mocker o’ God--tool of the devil, I’ve a notion to pulverize ye to dust!”