“Wau-mee-nuk, the white chief,” passed from lip to lip; and sullenly, slowly, reluctantly, the frenzied red circle fell back, as he pressed his rearing horse full against them.

How hideous their painted faces looked, as we slowly pushed past them, their lips shrieking insult, their sinewy hands gripping at our stirrups, their brandished weapons shaken in our faces.  With firm-set lips and watchful eyes I rode, bent well forward, so as best to protect the girl, my rifle held across my saddle pommel.  Twice some vengeful arm struck me a savage blow, and once a young devil with long matted hair hanging over his fierce eyes thrust a sharpened stake viciously at the girl’s face.  I struck with quick-clinched hand, and he reeled back into the mass with a sharp cry of pain.  My eyes caught the sudden dazzle, as De Croix whipped out his rapier.

“Not that, Monsieur!” I cried hastily, across her horse’s neck.  “Use the hilt, not the blade, unless you wish to die.”

He heard me above the clamor, and with a quick turn of the weapon struck fiercely at a scowling brave who grasped at his horse’s rein.  He smiled pleasantly across at me, his fingers twisting his small mustache.

“’T is doubtless good advice, friend Wayland,” he said, carelessly, “but these copper-colored devils are indeed most annoying upon this side, and I may lose my temper ere we reach the gate.”

“For the sake of her who rides between us, I beg that you hold in hard, Monsieur,” I answered. “’T would be overmuch to pay, I imagine, for a hot brain.”

I glanced at her as I spoke, scarcely conscious even then that I had removed my eyes from the threatening mob that pressed me, though I know I must have done so, for I retain the picture of her yet.  She rode facing me, although her saddle was of the old army type with merely a folded blanket to soften its sharp contours, and her foot could barely find firm support within the narrow strap above the wooden stirrup.  She sat erect and easily, swaying gently to the slow step of the horse.  Her face was pale, but there was no evidence of timidity in her dark eyes, and she smiled at me as our glances met.

“You are surely a brave girl, Mademoiselle!” I exclaimed, unable to restrain my admiration. “’T is a scene to try any nerves.”

“Yet almost worth the danger,” she returned softly, “to realize what men can be in such stress of need.  You are the real—­Beware of that half-breed, Monsieur!”

Her last words were a quick warning, yet my eyes were already upon the fellow, and as he dodged down, knife in hand, to aim a vicious lunge at the forward leg of her horse, I brought the stock of my rifle crunching against his shoulder.  The next instant we had passed over his naked body as he lay gasping in the trail.

“See!” she cried, with eagerness.  “The gates are opened!”