It is needless to follow the course of the trade—to give the words which passed between the bidders—how Paul, forgetting that he was only bidding in jest, refused to stop when Boston winked at him, but bid higher! Affairs trembled in the balance. Ten Eyck looked at the horse and his rival, and swore in his inmost soul to have the beast, if it took every guilder from his purse. He bid higher, and while he cogitated, Boston had winked Paul into submission. “One hundred and fifty guilders,” said Boston. “It’s a good pile. You don’t go any higher, Mynheer Swedlepipe?” “Nein,” said Paul. “Then you may have him, Ten Eyck. It’s as good a _sell_ as you ever heard on, I guess.” The last named individual counted out the money, bestrode the transformed beast, and rode away to his home, while Paul, falling prostrate upon the earth, hugged himself, and shouted with laughter. Boston, chinking the money in his purse, uttered a satisfied chuckle, and went his way. The hawker did not stay in the settlement, though the sun was low in the forest, and the Indians were thick as the deer, and bloody as the panther. Once in the woods, and out of sight of the village, he deftly hid his pack beside a fallen tree, drew out a beautiful gun from its place of concealment, and assumed an active, erect attitude, much unlike the slouching gait which had marked his course in the village. He cast a keen glance about him, and begun to load his piece before he set forward on the trail. This done, he tightened his belt, took a hasty glance at the sky, and buried himself in the woods. The forest path along which he journeyed was tangled, and covered by fallen leaves, in which his feet fell with a slight rustle. At times the deer started up from a thicket, and went crashing away. At others the brown bear went lumbering over the path, casting a surly glance over her shoulder at the strange intruder upon her native woods. The warning rattle of the venomous snake sounded in his ear; the howl of a distant panther was heard. Such were the sights and sounds of a Connecticut forest, in those early times. The change in the man who trod the forest path was wonderful. No longer the peddler keen for a trade, and seeing only the main chance, but a sharp, vigilant woodman, ready for any emergency which might arise. As he passed through a thick part of the woods, a confused sound came to his ears, as of a struggle among the dry leaves. Dashing aside the branches, with a hasty step he broke into an open place in the forest, and looked in upon a strange scene. The glade was not empty. Two men lay upon the ground, engaged in a struggle for life or death. Their quick, panting breaths came to Boston’s ears. Drawing his knife, he rushed forward, shouting: “Hold your hands! He who strikes another stroke will have me to fight.”