The warrior with the torch held the light aloft.
In a moment more something happened which changed the tables of fortune. Unable to bear the pain of her twisted ankle, Mrs. Risley drew in a sharp, rasping breath which sound reached the ears of one of the Indians. Instantly he stepped in that direction and spoke to the warrior with the torch. Three of the band came forward with swift steps and arrows pointed. A yell rent the air, telling that those in hiding were discovered.
Seeing it was useless to remain prostrate Henry leaped up. An arrow whizzed past his shoulder and would have struck him fairly in the breast had he not leaped to one side.
He, too, blazed away, and saw the leading Indian go down, shot through the breast, a serious if not a mortal wound. Then he pulled Mrs. Risley to her feet.
"Run!" he cried. "Run! It is your only chance. Hide in the woods!"
She limped off, but ere she had gotten a dozen steps two of the warriors were after her, and she was made a prisoner. In the meantime Henry retreated to a clump of birch trees and there made a stand against the remaining Indians.
The struggle, which lasted but a few minutes, was an unequal one. Another arrow was fired, and it grazed his left hand, causing the blood to flow freely, and making the stains afterward discovered by Dave. Then one of the red men came up behind the trees, and reaching out struck him with the flat side of a tomahawk. Henry tried to turn and grapple with his assailant, but suddenly his senses left him and he knew no more.
"'Tis one of the Morris family," said the Indian with the torch, in his native tongue. He made an examination. "He is not dead."