part of the flames. Red man and white girl watched silently until the metal was crackling white, when the Indian nodded sharply. Mehitable tore a corner from a blanket and wrapping it around the handle of the hunting knife, carried it from the fire and laid it directly on his bleeding flesh. There was a sizzling noise, an odor of burned flesh, and Mehitable dropped the knife with another cry.
"I cannot! I cannot!" She swayed dizzily.
"All right!" said the Indian stoically, who had been perfectly motionless during this trying ordeal. Indeed, he seemed far less affected than the girl.
But just as weeks ago she had bound the Indian's wound when he had come through the snow to the Condits' farmhouse and she and Charity had been alone in the house, so now Mehitable's hardy spirit soon revived and she once more picked up the hunting knife to reheat it.
Twice, then, she carried it from hearth fire to the mutilated shoulder of the red man—twice, quite steadily, with no hint of swooning in her steps.
When the Indian held up his hand and murmured, "Enough!" Mehitable was able to tear a linen scrip from her petticoat and bind his shoulder with quick, deft fingers. Then he rested awhile and the girl, too, sinking down upon a chair, relaxed.
It was fully dawn before the Indian stumbled to his feet and muttered, "Come!" Then Mehitable for the first time realized that the door had been ajar all this time, that escape was possible.
Without one look around her hateful prison, where she
