The Indian had gone on as before, growing more and more furious every moment. His eyes rolled fearfully. He had drunk most of the contents of the bottle, and his brain was on fire. His voice grew hoarser and hoarser, his gestures more violent, and his manner more threatening; his utterances were still of that sing-song character already mentioned, but they had now become almost unearthly in their intonations. What mad thoughts there might be in his mind at that time could not be known; nor could they imagine the exciting visions that were wrought in his distracted brain. Whatever they were, they at length passed away; and his eyes, that had been rolling at vacancy, now steadied themselves, and suddenly fastened themselves upon the boys with a look of concentrated hate and fury that was terrible. So terrible was that look, that the boys all shrank back in horror. Then they started up to their feet, and stood close together, in silence, each nerving his young heart for the coming struggle, which now seemed imminent. As they thus stood, they were on a line with Solomon; but their attention was so occupied with the Indian that they neither thought of him nor saw him. “Let’s stick together,” said Bart at length in hurried tones--“it’s our only chance.” “Stick it is,” said Pat, who had recovered his coolness, “through thick and thin.” Phil said nothing, but stood his ground with the others, and waited. The movements of the boys had excited the Indian still more. A furious cry escaped him. He looked at them for a moment, and then moved to the right, and flung his bottle into the fire. The spirits poured out, and the blaze threw a bluish, ghastly glare over the scene. Then the madman gave a terrible yell, and rushed towards the boys. The boys saw him coming. They stood firm. They gathered up all their strength. But suddenly a dark shadow darted forward, and a dark figure flung itself against the Indian. It was Solomon. Watchful, eager, fierce, he had waited for the onset, and as the Indian advanced he made his spring. Rushing upon him, he struck him on the side, and the onset was so unexpected that the Indian had not time to guard against it. He fell to the ground. In a moment Solomon was upon him. He twined his legs around him. He grasped the savage by the throat. To that throat he clung with a death like tenacity, never relaxing that iron grasp, that convulsive grip, but clinging, holding, tightening his clutch all the more as his enemy strove to shake him off. The boys stood there looking on in speechless amazement. They recognized Solomon, but could scarcely believe their own eyes. Where had Solomon gained that bounding activity, that tremendous strength and energy, which now availed him even against the madman’s fury? Could this be Solomon--the one who was afraid of his own superstitious fancies--the one who had just been in miserable thraldom to a drunken wife? It seemed incredible. Yet that this was Solomon himself they saw plainly.