It seemed that the noise of the conflict, the snapping
of dry dead wood, the swish and crash of leafy brush, must draw
attention from the camp, but it was too engrossed in its own mad
hilarity to heed so small a sound.
Over and over strained the strangely-met foes in silence, and presently
they struggled up, barehanded, face to face, for Maren had dropped her
rifle when she fell. As they whirled into a more open space the light
from the fire struck through the foliage and glistened on a tuft of
white hair on the swarthy temple before her.
"Hola! DesCaut!" gasped the girl.
"Oho! I win!"
For, with the sudden illumination, she forgot for a moment the present
and DesCaut; for it was the turncoat awaked from a drunken sleep apart,
who pushed swiftly forward, took the moment's advantage of her
hesitation, and pinioned her arms to her sides.
She might still have had a chance, for she was as strong as he, but
that he raised his voice in a call for help.
Thus it was that, in less time than the telling, Maren Le Moyne,
rescuer, leader of the long trail, was dragged, fast bound by a dozen
gripping hands, into the firelit space in the great circle, a captive
under the eyes of the man she had come to save.
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