Four Hair-Brushes was alone.
Unarmed, as ever, he sat, save for the hunting-whip in his right hand.
“Scalp him!” yelled the Friendly Crows.
“Nay, take him alive: a seemlier knight never backed steed!” cried the gallant Americans.
From their midst rode a courteous cavalier, Captain John Barry, the scholar, the hero of sword and pen.
“Yield thee, Sir Knight!” he said, doffing his képi in martial courtesy.
Four Hair-Brushes replied to his salute, and was opening his curved and delicate lips to speak, when a chance bullet struck him full in the breast. He threw up his arms, reeled, and fell. The gallant American, leaping from saddle to ground, rushed to raise his head.
Through the war-paint he recognised him.
“Great Heaven!” he cried, “it is—”
“Hush!” whispered Four Hair-Brushes, with a weary smile: “let Annesley de Vere of the Blues die unnamed. Tell them that I fell in harness.”