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“If I let you go; will you lead me in safety across your lines, and release my guide Hemlock, if he has been taken prisoner?”

“Sartainly I will; Slocum’s word is as good as his bond. Take your hands off me and I will set you and your Injun to hum in an hour.”

Morton released his grasp, and stood up, drew his sword, and awaited Slocum’s rising. With a deft movement the American thrust his hand into his belt, drew a heavy, short-bladed knife, and shot it forward from his palm with an ease and dexterity that indicated much practice. Morton’s eye caught the gleam of the steel and he sprang back, and in so doing saved his life, for the point of the blade, which would have pierced his breast, stuck in his right thigh for an instant and dropped out. In a towering passion of indignation, which made him unconscious of the pain and flow of blood, he rushed upon the American, who had sprung to his feet and lifted his sword in time to foil Morton’s thrust. “Vile wretch, you shall die as traitors die!” exclaimed Morton, and the clash of steel was incessant. He was much the better swordsman, but his impetuosity and anger deprived him of the advantage of his skill, and stepping backward, Slocum’s long sword, wielded by his long arm, kept him at bay. Morton’s anger increased with the difficulty in dealing a deadly thrust, until, in making a lunge, he stumbled over a fallen log. Had he been unwounded he would have instantly recovered himself. The wrench to his pierced leg shot a thrill of agony to his heart, and the weakened knee refused its office. In a moment Slocum had him on his back and planting his foot on the bleeding wound, pressed it with all his might, while he placed the point of his sword on his throat. A mocking leer lit up his yellow face as he said composedly: “I don’t see how yer mother let you go out alone; you’re green as garden-sass. Thought Major Slocum would be your obedient servant and lead you and yer infernal Injun past the lines! You poor trash of a Britisher! An you sucked in my talk about honor and let go yer holt on my throat! You poor innocent, its like stabbing a baby to put my sword through yer gizzard. Say, sonny, wouldn’t you like to live?”