In the middle of that open space there stood, or rather fought, two men, each contending for the other's life. Each also was a splendid example of the Indian race, great in height, muscular and sinewy; yet the one who seemed the younger of the two was the tallest and the best favoured, the elder having a fierce and cruel face. Both wielded that dreadful instrument, the tomahawk, the weapon that, while so small and harmless-looking, is, in the hands of those accustomed to its use, so deadly; both were bare from the waist upwards, their breasts painted with emblems or devices--a bear on one, a panther on the other. Yet more dreadful, perhaps, than to know that this was a combat to the death, was to see the manner in which the struggle took place. It was no battle of blow against blow, of one blow struck only to be warded off and another given; it was a fight in which craft was opposed to craft and skill to skill, such as no Italian swordsman perhaps knew better how to exhibit. Round and round what once would have been called the lists, or, as we now term it, the arena, those two stole after each other, first one creeping like a tiger at his foe and then his opponent doing the same; while, as they came within striking distance, the tomahawk would rise in the attacker's hand only to sink again as its wielder recognised that it must surely be skilfully parried or fall ineffectually. It was weird, horrible--nay, devilish--to see these two great types of humanity creeping at one another like tigers, yet never meeting in a great shock, as one might well have looked for. But those below who sat there caused us as much surprise and agitation as did these combatants. There I saw my sweet Joice with, on her fair face, the greatest agitation depicted while she watched every movement of the contending foemen, her excitement being intense as the one who bore the emblem of the bear advanced as though to strike the other, and her look of disappointment extreme when he drew back foiled. What did it mean? What did it portend?