At Dick's earnest request Roland waited for half an hour before he sent for Peter.
This gentleman advanced from the camp fire humming an operatic air, and with a cigar in hand.
"Oh, Mr. Peter," said Roland, "I was walking near your sleeping place of last night and picked this up."
He held up the little bamboo spear.
"What is it?" said Peter. "An arrow? I suppose some of the Indians dropped it. I never saw it before. It seems of little consequence," he continued, "though I dare say it would suffice to pink a rat with."
He laughed lightly as he spoke. "Was this all you wanted me for, Mr. St. Clair?"
He was handling the little spear as he spoke. Next moment:
"Merciful Father!" he suddenly screamed, "I have pricked myself! I am poisoned! I am a dead man! Brandy-- Oh, quick-- Oh--!"
He said never a word more, but dropped on the moss as if struck by a dum-dum bullet.
And there he lay, writhing in torture, foaming at the mouth, from which blood issued from a bitten tongue.