red man's face. He took an eager step toward the girl.
"You cut it?" he asked in a voice not quite steady with its unexpected revulsion of feeling. "My knife—you cut it."
"Aye," nodded the mountain girl in turn. Her round cheeks paled in anticipation of what she had to do. "I will cut it! Where is you knife?"
Without another word the Indian handed her his hunting knife and silently seated himself upon a stool, presenting his bare shoulder to the girl.
And now Mehitable had to take a firm grip upon herself indeed. With steady fingers she cut away the flesh around the snake bite upon the red man's shoulder. When she had finished, the Indian, who had not once flinched during the operation, spoke in a firm tone.
"Burn!"
Mehitable started.
"You mean—burn the wound?" she faltered.
The Indian nodded.
"Oh!" The girl's eyes dilated. "I cannot! I cannot!"
Her voice rose in a sudden wail and, dropping the knife, she clasped her hands and began to cry hysterically. Her hard night's vigil and the recent strain of the operation told upon her nerves. But the Indian, sitting passive, was indomitable. He waited until her sobs had lessened and spoke again.
"Burn!"
So Mehitable stooped and, picking up the knife, went to the fire and placed its blade directly in the hottest
