But Douglas did not heed the warning. He eluded the grasp of one of the Indians who barred his way; discharged his rifle full in the face of another; struck down a third—and leaping over his prostrate body, sped on. A half-score of guns cracked simultaneously. But the bullets failed to reach the moving mark; and master and dog were beyond the line of their enemies. They would have distanced their pursuers and escaped, had not an unforeseen accident occurred. Ross’s foot became entangled in a bunch of coarse, wet grass, and he tripped and fell heavily. Ere he could rise his enemies were upon him. Duke sprang at the throat of the foremost assailant, and dog and brave fell to the ground. Over and over they rolled—the hound striving to bury his fangs in the Indian’s throat, the savage attempting to sheath his knife in the animal’s heart. Douglas got upon his feet, clubbed his rifle, and laid about him vigorously. But his foes overpowered him and pressed him to the earth. Seeing which, Duke relinquished his hold upon the throat of his prostrate adversary and flew to the aid of his master. The dying warrior gasped, and attempted to arise—blood spurting in crimson jets from his lacerated arteries. At the critical moment, Bradford rushed among the braves, and flinging them right and left, thundered in the Indian tongue: “Hold, you mad devils! Would you overpower and murder a man who has fought bravely for his life? Harm not a hair of his head, or your lives shall pay the penalty. He is _my_ prisoner.” Bending down, he assisted Douglas to arise. As soon as he could speak, the young man called to the bloodhound: “Here, Duke! Down—down, I say!” The obedient animal left the savage with whom he was struggling, and crouched at his master’s feet—panting, whining, and rolling his blood-rimmed eyes. The Indians drew apart a short distance, grunting and grumbling in a surly and threatening manner. For a full minute the two white men stood looking at each other. Douglas’s chest was still heaving from his recent exertions; and his words came brokenly: “You saved my life. I thank you for it! But I’d rather you had left me to my fate.” “Why?” Bradford asked coolly. “Because I don’t like to be under obligations to a traitor,” Ross replied boldly. The younger man expected to see the older’s face pale with anger. But a smile actually rested upon Bradford’s scarred visage, as he returned calmly: “You’re mistaken, my young friend. I’m no traitor. _You_ are loyal to the Americans—_I_ am loyal to the English.” “Then you are a spy in the employ of the British.” “Y-e-s. Or an agent to look after their interests among the Indians, rather.” “I despise you none the less,” Ross cried. Bradford continued to smile as he said: