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‘Well, go then; who wants you?’ said Guy.

But softer-hearted Jack said, ‘Clarence, you mustn’t. You’ll be safe in here; but out there—-‘

But the General had already vanished. He was crouching outside in the shadow of the stockade. He could not bear being penned up any longer; he must at least have a run for his life.

Had the enemy heard him declare his innocence? If so, it did not seem to have softened them. They were still crouching–silent, hidden, relentless–behind the currant bushes, their scouts signalling to one another, for no real grasshopper ever made so much noise as that. He must make a bolt for it, and take his chance of their arrows missing him. Over the open space of grey-green grass he scuttled, and actually succeeded in reaching the friendly shadow of the holly hedge unharmed; but that was probably because they felt so certain of cutting him off at their pleasure.

On tiptoe and trembling went the General along the narrow paths, green with damp, and latticed by the shadows which branches cast in the sickly moonlight, until–just when he was almost clear of the gloom–his knees bent under him; for there, at the end of the walk, against the starry sky, stood a towering figure, with bristling feather head-dress, and tomahawk poised.

‘Oh, please, sir, don’t!’ he faltered, and shut his eyes, expecting the Indian to bound upon him. But when he opened his eyes again, the savage was gone! He must have slipped behind a ragged old yew which had once been clipped and trimmed to look like a chess-king.

Clarence Tinling tottered on through the shrubbery, which was full of terrors. Warriors, stealthy and cruel, lurked behind every rustling laurel; far away on the lawn he saw their spears through the tall pampas grass; he heard them chirping, clucking, and grunting in every direction as they lay in wait for him, until at last he gained the broad gravel path, at the end of which–oh, how far away they seemed!–were the three lighted windows of the drawing-room. He could see the interior quite plainly, and the group round the piano where the shaded lamp made a spot of brilliant colour. What were they all doing? Were they huddled together, waiting, watching in an agony of suspense? Nothing of the kind: it will be scarcely credited, perhaps, but this heartless domestic circle were positively passing the time with music, as if nothing were happening!

If only he could reach that bright drawing-room before the rush came! He felt that there were lithe forms stealing along behind the flower-beds. He dared not run, but dragged his heavy feet along the gravel; and then, all at once, from the rhododendron bushes rose a wild, unearthly yell. He could bear it no longer; he would make one last effort, even if they tomahawked him on the very verandah.

Somehow–he never knew how–he found himself in the midst of that quiet musical party, wild with terror, scarcely able to speak.

‘The Red Indians!’ he gasped. ‘Don’t let them get me! Save me–hide me somewhere!’ and he remembered afterwards that he made a mad endeavour to get inside the piano.

He was instantly surrounded by the astonished family. ‘My dear Clarence,’ said Mrs. Jolliffe, ‘you’re perfectly safe–you’ve been frightening yourself with your own game. There are no Indians here.’

Another howl from the shrubbery seemed to contradict her. ‘There, didn’t you hear that?’ he cried. ‘Oh, you won’t believe me till it’s too late! There are hundreds of them round the stockade. They may have scalped Jack and Guy by this time!’

‘And why ain’t you being scalped too?’ inquired Uncle Lambert.

‘I’m sure you needn’t talk!’ he retorted; ‘you weren’t any more anxious to fight than I am.’

‘But isn’t that different? I thought you had fought them before, and conquered?’

‘Then you thought wrong! Those–those weren’t real Indians–I made them up, then!’

‘Now we’ve got it!’ said Uncle Lambert. ‘Well, Master Clarence, you’ve made your little confession, and now it’s my turn–I made Yellow Vulture up!’