He had not gone twenty yards farther when he heard footsteps, and the "swish" of leaves, as if some one was making way through the underwood. Directed by these sounds he rushed rapidly after. Ten seconds more and he was in sight of a saddled horse, standing tied to a tree, and a man in the act of untying him. The man was making all haste, hindered by a heavy rifle carried in his hand. It was the gun that had just been discharged, and Pierre Robideau had recognised the man who had made the attempt to murder him. Alfred Brandon! With a shout, such as only one Indian-born could give, he bounded forward, and, before the retreating assassin could climb into his saddle, he seized him by the throat and dashed him against the trunk of a tree. The horse, frightened by the fierce onslaught, gave a loud neigh, and galloped off. "I thank you," cried Robideau, "and you alone, Mr Alf Brandon, for giving me this chance! I've got you exactly where I wanted you! For six years I've been longing for this hour, and now it has come as if I'd planned it myself." Brandon, by this time recovered from the shock, threw down his gun, drew pistol, and was about to fire; but, before he could get his finger on the trigger, his antagonist seized him by the wrist, and, wrenching the weapon from his hand, dashed him a second time against the tree trunk. Reeling and giddy, he saw the muzzle of his own pistol pointed at his head, and expected nothing else than the bullet through his brains. The cry of the coward came from his lips as he writhed under the terrible anticipation. To his astonishment the shot was not fired! Pierre Robideau, flinging the pistol away, stood before him apparently unarmed! "No, Mr Alf Brandon!" said he, "shooting is too good for such a dog as you; and a dog's death you shall have. Come away from here! Come on! I want to see which of us can _hang longest by the hand_. We tried it six years ago, but the trial wasn't a fair one. 'Tis your turn now. Come on!" More than ever astonished, Brandon hesitated to comply. The calm yet determined air of his antagonist told him it was no jest, but that something terrible was intended. He glanced stealthily to the right and left, and seemed to calculate the chances of escape. Robideau read his thoughts. "Don't attempt it," said he, throwing back the lapel of his coat, and showing the butt of a pistol. "I have this, and will use it if you make any effort to get off. Come!" Saying this, he seized the cowering ruffian by the wrist, and, half leading, half dragging, hurried him away from the spot. In five minutes after they stood under a tree--the same upon which Pierre Robideau had endured all the horrors of hanging. "What do you mean to do?" asked Brandon, in a faltering voice. "I've told you. I am curious to see how long _you_ can stand it."