An Indian guard stood statuelike against a stone.
Other savages lay in a row, their polished heads shining. One
slumbering form was bedecked with feathers and frills. Near him lay
an Indian blanket, from the border of which peered two faces,
gleaming white and sad in the pitying moonlight.
The watcher quivered at the sight of those pale faces; but he must
wait while long moments passed. He must wait for the Avenger to
creep up, silently kill the guard, and release the prisoners without
awakening the savages. If that plan failed, he was to rush into the
glade, and in the excitement make off with one of the captives.
He lay there waiting, listening, wrought up to the intensest pitch
of fierce passion. Every nerve was alert, every tendon strung, and
every muscle strained ready for the leap.
Only the faint rustling of leaves, the low swish of swaying
branches, the soft murmur of falling water, and over all the sigh of
the night wind, proved to him that this picture was not an evil
dream. His gaze sought the quiet figures, lingered hopefully on the
captives, menacingly on the sleeping savages, and glowered over the
gaudily arrayed form. His glance sought the upright guard, as he
stood a dark blot against the gray stone. He saw the Indian's plume,
a single feather waving silver-white.
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