She has not failed to notice the bearing of the boy hunters, their insulting tone and attitude towards him of Indian taint, who, for all that, has been the companion of her girlhood's life--the sharer of her father's roof, rude and humble as it is. Most of those left in the glade she knows--all of them by name--Buck and Brandon with a slight feeling of aversion. But she has confidence in Pierre--the only name by which she knows her father's guest--the name given by the man who some six years before entrusted him to her father's keeping; she knows that he is neither child nor simpleton, and against any ordinary danger can well guard himself. By this sweet reflection allaying her fears she flits forward along the forest path like a young fawn, emboldened by the knowledge that the lair of the protecting stag is safe and near. STORY ONE, CHAPTER THREE. HANGING BY ONE HAND. "How is it to be?" asks Slaughter, holding the watch as if he were weighing it. "By one hand or both?" "One hand, of course. That was the challenge." "I propose that the other be tied. That will be the best way, and fair for both parties. There will then be no balancing, and it will be a simple test of strength in the arm used for suspension. The right, of course. Let the left be tied down. What say you, boys?" "There can be no objection to that. It's equal for both," remarks Randall. "I make no objection," says Brandon. "Nor I," assents the young hunter; "tie as you please, so long as you tie alike." "Good!" ejaculates Bill Buck, with a sly wink to his companions, unseen by the last speaker. The competitors stand under the branch of the tree ready to be tied. A minute or two sufficed for this. It is done by a piece of string cord looped upon the left wrist, and then carried round the thigh. By this means the left arm is secured against struggling or in anyway lessening the strain upon the right. Thus pinioned, both stand ready for the trial. "Who goes first?" is the question asked by Slaughter. "The challenger, or the challenged?" "The challenged has the choice," answers Randall. "Do you wish it, Choc?" he adds, addressing himself to the quarter-bred Indian. "It makes no difference to me whether first or last," is the simple reply. "All right, then; I'll go first," says Brandon, springing up, and clutching hold of the limb. Slaughter, entrusted with the duty, appears to take note of the time. One--two--three--three minutes and thirty seconds--told off on the dial of his watch, and Brandon drops to the ground. He does not appear to have made much of an effort. It is strange he should be so indifferent to the losing of a splendid rifle, to say nothing of the humiliation of defeat. Both seem in store for him, as the young hunter, bracing himself to the effort, springs up to the branch. One--two--three--four--five. Five minutes are told off, and still does he remain suspended.