The bar of sunlight was gone from the wall, and through the one small window in the west end of his room he saw the fading light of day outside.  It was morning when he had fought Brokaw; it was now almost night.  The wash-basin was where it had fallen when Henry struck him.  He saw a red stain on the floor where he must have dropped.  Then again he looked at the window.  It was rather oddly out of place, so high up that one could not look in from the outside—­a rectangular slit to let in light, and so narrow that a man could not have wormed his way through it.  He had seen nothing particularly significant in its location last night, or this morning, but now its meaning struck him as forcibly as that of the pieces of babiche thong that bound his wrists and ankles.  A guest might be housed in this room without suspicion and at the turn of a key be made a prisoner.  There was no way of escape unless one broke down the heavy door or cut through the log walls.

Gradually he was overcoming his sensation of sickness.  His head was clearing, and he began to breathe more deeply.  He tried to move his cramped arms.  They were without feeling, lifeless weights hung to his shoulders.  With an effort he thrust out his feet.  And then—­through the window—­there came to him a low, thrilling sound.

It was the muffled boom, boom, boom of a tom-tom.

Wapi and his Indians were going, and he heard now a weird and growing chant, a savage paean to the wild gods of the Moulting Moon.  A gasp rose in his throat.  It was almost a cry.  His last hope was going—­with Wapi and his tribe!  Would they help him if they knew?  If he shouted?  If he shrieked for them through that open window?  It was a mad thought, an impossible thought, but it set his heart throbbing for a moment.  And then—­suddenly—­it seemed to stand still.  A key rattled, turned; the door opened—­and Marge O’Doone stood before him!

She was panting—­sobbing, as if she had been running a long distance.  She made no effort to speak, but dropped at his feet and began sawing at the caribou babiche with a knife.  She had come prepared with that knife!  He felt the bonds snap, and before either had spoken she was at his back, and his hands were free.  They were like lead.  She dropped the knife then, and her hands were at his face—­dark with dry stain of blood, and over and over again she was calling him by the name she had given him—­Sakewawin.  And then the tribal chant of Wapi and his people grew nearer and louder as they passed into the forest, and with a choking cry the Girl drew back from David and stood facing him.

“I—­must hurry,” she said, swiftly.  “Listen!  They are going!  Hauck or Brokaw will go as far as the lake with Wapi, and the one who does not go will return here.  See, Sakewawin—­I have brought you a knife!  When he comes—­you must kill him!”

The chanting voices had passed.  The paean was dying away in the direction of the forest.