Muskwah's natural strength, aided by passion, which disregarded life safety, prevailed at length. His rival lay beneath his hands, pressed upon the white, flowering moss, his face rigid with increasing fear.
The victor's bosom rose and fell exultantly. 'The Spirit has given you into my power, and bidden me take revenge. Gaze for the last time on the world light, white man, before I draw darkness across your eyes with my knife.'
Lamont glared upward despairingly. The hands that held him trembled with the mighty flood of restrained anger. A knife quivered in hot white circles between his eyes and the furious face of his opponent.
All his subtle resource in emergency rose in a mighty effort for preservation of life. There was still a move to be made; desperate, but yet of possible success. He must pit his trained mind knowledge and power of will against the weak determination and brain of inexperience.
He was a splendid actor. So he nerved himself and laughed aloud.
Surprise partially disarmed the victor of his blind anger. Then came the words which caused his grip to loosen,—
'Pshaw! I will in a word take away strength from your arm. You dare not kill me.'
Muskwah stared upon the lively face of scorn, his own working in perplexity. 'Tell me why I should spare you,' he said wonderingly.
The answer came with a slow, cruel deliberation, 'Menotah loves me.'
He felt the finger clutch on his throat unfasten, as an overstrained necklet. He watched the light of knowledge dawning upon the heavy features. He had fired his shot, as at invisible foes under cover of night. Now he must follow up his words and make his advantage sure.