Jack and his crew were sitting motionless in their saddles, Dick Long, the rear man, standing ready to give the necessary shove-off.
The speaker had stopped talking, and had taken his stand at the head of the line of masked men. In his hands he held an antique-looking urn, and at a signal the others advanced one by one. As the first man passed he dropped into the urn a small object that looked like a bean. But there could be no mistake about the color—it was black. Another followed, and then another, until all had passed and cast their vote, if vote it was. The chief solemnly emptied the contents of the urn upon the ground. Every bean was black.
The leader drew from beneath his cloak a long, glittering, crescent-shaped knife, and held it high above his head.
"Your sentence, then"—he looked inquiringly at the immovable silent figures that stood about him in a circle.
"Death!" came in muffled tones from the first mask, and "Death!" echoed the next, and the next, until all had spoken.
The circle parted, and the executioner moved slowly towards the altar and the victim.
"Now!" shouted Jack, and the Arrow flashed down the slope as though sped from some gigantic bowstring. In an instant the boys had dismounted, and were kneeling under cover of the stone-work with their rifles at their shoulders. There was a moment of surprise and confusion among the masked figures, and the man with the knife pulled up sharply.
Jack snatched off his cap and tossed it into the air. It fell some twenty feet away, an improvised dead-line between the two parties.
"Keep back of that or we fire," he said, tersely.
The line of masked men wavered for an instant, and then the leader held up his hand and stepped forward.