The Stone Men were gathering more wood, and gleefully laying it in a circle about the captive and the saplings--a wide circle, not too close, as Maclish directed them. Crawford worked at those right-hand thongs, unobserved, and presently felt them snap. His wrist came free, so that he swiftly gripped the sapling to keep the fact from being noticed. This small freedom gave him no advantage, for he was weaponless and could not release his other hand, stretched high to the left-hand sapling. His heart sank, and hope fled again. With their circle of brush completed, the Stone Men now brought flaming brands from the blazing pyre and set them into the brush, which crept into quick flame. They stood off, and with jeer and taunt began to goad the captive, using the few English words they knew, while Maclish held up the Star of Dreams and bellowed imprecations. The flaming circle grew, and became a torture-ring that surrounded Crawford with hot radiance. Not waiting for the victim to be roasted, one of the eager redskins now came leaping in, bearing a longer brand from the fire, and began to buffet the helpless man with this. The other three joined in this play, leaping in and out of the fiery circle. Their brands smote Crawford across breast and back, and set sparks to his woollen breeches. He clung to the saplings, half suffocated, his body flinching from the brands, fire sweeping through his veins; the circle of brush was all clear flame, the heat of it intolerable. Then one of the redskins came close--and he had his chance. Loosing his frenzied grip on the sapling, Crawford sent his free right hand to the red throat. A howl went up, a chorus of wild yells and oaths; the others stared at the sight of Crawford gripping their comrade. He did more than grip, however, for he brought up his knee in a furious blow, and the red figure went limp. Crawford dropped the body headlong into the flames, and two others darted in to rescue the senseless man. Maclish bellowed astounded curses, and Crawford fumbled to get his left hand clear, but could not. He was helpless to free that hand, and so stood waiting, arm above head. The three remaining redskins now abandoned their senseless comrade, obeyed the roars of Maclish, and brought in more wood. At this instant there occurred a singular and almost incredible thing. Across the firelit space glittered a swift flash of steel, gleaming more quickly than eye could follow. From the sapling which held Crawford’s left wrist bound, came a slight thud. Crawford, startled, looked up to see a tomahawk sunk into the sapling--and his wrist was free. The darkness gave birth to a horrible scream, the Mohegan war whoop. Already Maclish and the Stone Men were leaping for their weapons. A musket roared, and one of the warriors pitched down. Across the open space flitted the painted, half-naked figure of Le Talon, knife in hand, whoop rising into the night. Then Maclish roared at his men. “Alone! He’s alone, fools----”