"Now, Bill," he whispered, "when you think the time has come, press through."
"All right," again came the answer with that leaping tone in it.
Phil put the knife back in its scabbard, and, pressing closely against the hide beside the slash, waited. Bill did not come. A minute, another, and a third passed. He heard the monotonous whistling, the steady chant, and the ceaseless beat of the dancer's feet, but Breakstone made no sound. Once more he pressed his lips to the slit, and said in the softest of tones:
"Are you coming, Bill?"
No answer, and again he waited interminable minutes. Then the lips of the buffalo skin parted, and a shoulder appeared at the opening. It was thrust farther, and a head and face, the head and face of Bill Breakstone, followed. Then he slipped entirely out, and the tough buffalo hide closed up behind him. Phil seized his hand, and the two palms closed in a strong grasp.
"I had to wait until nobody was looking my way," whispered Breakstone, "and then it was necessary to make it a kind of sleight-of-hand performance. I slipped through so quick that any one looking could only see the place where I had been."
Then he added in tones of irrepressible admiration:
"It was well done, it was nobly done, it was grandly done, Sir Philip of the Night and the Knife."
"Hark to that!" said Phil, "they miss you already!"
A shout, sharp, shrill, wholly different from all the other sounds, came from within the great medicine lodge. It was the signal of alarm. It was not repeated, and the whistling and wailing went on, but Phil and Breakstone knew that warriors would be out in an instant, seeking the lost captive.