His big arm relaxed, the sword fell from his nerveless grasp, clanging to the ground.
When she reopened her eyes after an age of suspense she saw him leaning against the tree, his body shaking with sobs. A second glance and she started to her feet alarmed.
His broad back was covered with blood. Near his left shoulder the clothing was torn and an ugly, gaping wound leered at her.
"Oh," she gasped; "you—you are hurt!"
"Hurt!" he groaned. "They have killed me! You have killed me—you and your friends. I hope you—are—satisfied—with—your—see?" As he sank to the ground, he pointed feebly to the cruel arrow which he had torn from his side. It lay not far away, grim and bloody.
The horrified girl glanced at it helplessly and then at the unconscious man, unable to realise. Then she cried aloud in her agony and threw herself upon the prostrate form, moaning:
"Dead! Dead! Speak to me, Ralph—look up! I love you—I worship you! You shall not leave me!"
She kissed the pallid face, caressed the chilling head, sobbing:
"Forgive me—forgive me!"
An hour afterward the clatter of hoofs upon the road aroused her from the semi-conscious condition into which her grief had thrown her. Through the gathering darkness she saw horsemen approaching—Indian riders! A moment later they were dismounting at her side, and well-known voices were calling to her: