Shouldering his rifle, he set out, walking briskly in spite of pain and weakness. The sun went down; the rosy light began to pale and fade. At last he stopped suddenly. “I’m nearing the river. Perhaps I’d better wait until it’s darker. But then I’m afraid I should run into danger without seeing it. What’s best? Ah!” He uttered the exclamation with vexation and disappointment, and sprang behind a tree. In the dusky twilight he perceived a cloaked figure moving toward him. Loosening the knife in his belt, he softly placed his gun against the tree trunk and peeped from his place of concealment. The obscure figure was coming on, slowly, hesitatingly. Its cautious footfalls fell upon his ear. He drew his knife and panted with suppressed excitement. Nearer and nearer to his hiding-place, the figure drew, its head bent low over a bundle it carried in its arms. Douglas breathed hard and, gripping his knife firmly, held it ready for instant use. Then he made the discovery that the approaching personage was a woman—an Indian squaw, probably. For a moment he debated what he should do. Could he kill a defenseless female, even to assure his own safety? His soul sickened at the thought. Quickly he determined on a more humane course of action. He would confront the squaw. Should she seek to give an alarm, he would seize and overpower her. Then he would choke her into silence and carry her from the spot. Acting upon this resolve, he boldly stepped from his place of concealment and coughed to attract the woman’s attention. Flinging up her head, she uttered a half-suppressed scream and turned to flee. Ross sprang forward and threw his arms around her. She struggled to escape, but did not cry out. The cloak fell from her shoulders. In the dim twilight he saw that she was a white woman, and that she held a small child in her arms. Instantly releasing her, he stammered: “My good woman, I beg a thousand pardons. In the gloom I mistook you for a squaw, and, fearing that you might raise an alarm——” He broke off and recoiled a step, a sharp exclamation upon his lips. The woman had lifted a wan face to his; and by the tremulous light of the dying twilight, he had recognized her. “Amy!” he gasped. “Ross!” she whispered hoarsely, leaning against a tree for support and closely hugging the child to her breast. A short time they stood there without uttering another word, each staring wildly at the other’s shadowy form and features—each hearing the other’s labored breathing. Ross was the first to regain the power of speech. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a strange, altered voice. “Trying to escape from a bondage worse than death!” she replied in hard, bitter tones in which there was no hint of tears. “You—you’ve been a prisoner among the Indians?” he inquired in kinder accents. “Yes; but that isn’t what I mean,” she answered in a hopeless voice.