The face of the figure was as white as the shroud of the departed, and the pistol fell from the noiseless hand of the soldier, as the specter shot forward with a cry, as unnatural as the color of its face. Something like a petrified bough was raised aloft above the girl’s head; a moment later countless millions of stars danced before the Briton’s face, and he staggered and fell at the foot of the niche. Over his prostrate form sprung his pale vanquisher, and, an instant later, she sunk upon the rocks beyond the smoke, in the breath of the pure wind! A cry followed her swoon, and four figures were bending over her, and looking from her pale face into each others’ with astonishment. “She lives! she lives!” cried Mark Morgan, as he saw the girl’s lids unclose, and while he pressed her to his heart, his companions sprung fearlessly into the fissure, and a moment later reappeared with the senseless form of the British major. “He’s not going to escape the hangman, after all,” said Kenowatha, as they laid their captive upon the rocks near his almost victim. “He’s badly mangled, but a man who can stand what he has, can stand more.” A few moments witnessed Effie’s complete recovery, and in a few words she related her vanquishing of the Briton. When Rudolph Runnion touched her hand in the gloomy cave she must have been in a deep swoon, that admirably counterfeited death, for she knew nothing of his visit, and when she came to her senses, the little apartment was filled with pure air, and a moment afterward she was startled by hearing the major’s defiant words. Presently she knew that the red-skins had been vanquished, and that her lover was beyond the cave. Groping in the gloom her fingers clutched a bough denuded of bark, and swarming with knots which contributed to its toughness, and the burning brush enabled her to attack the Briton with the gratifying result just witnessed. “I guess we’re ready to go, now,” said Mark, when Effie finished her narration, and assured him that she felt strong enough to keep pace with him through the wood. “Mad Anthony is near his prey now. To-morrow will witness the great battle.” “And the entire destruction of the Death League,” hissed the Girl Avenger. “To-morrow I shall meet its surviving members--Turkey-foot and Joe Girty, and, ere nightfall, the crimson crescent shall adorn their brows!” “Effie, we’ll hide you somewhere until after the battle,” said Morgan. “No! no! Mark. On the morrow I fight at your side. Have I not parents to avenge? Did not the red demons tear their scalps from their heads? Ay, and should I not have revenge? I will have it, Mark! You can not keep me from the red conflict! I will fight at your side, and my voice shall swell the victorious chorus of our people to-morrow night.” “Then so be it, Effie,” said her lover. “May the God of battle watch over you, girl, for the morrow will be the bloodiest day ever witnessed by these old woods.”