such it became, when the fight stopped for a breath and every man’s passion-filled face was lighted by the red glare.

“Shoot him down!” shouted Pearse in horror.

And Venner and Tomlin strove for words without success. Venner was dumb and sick in face of Dolores’s peril. Yellow Rufe uttered a grim, Satanic growl of laughter, and drew back his arm for the cast. His plight was utterly desperate; he knew death waited for him with clutching talons, and with his last breath he would reap toll that should make his name a thing to recall with dread afterward.

“This for thy witch’s heart!” he howled, and his arm quivered. Then out of the shadows aloft, above the smoky flare, came down the tremendous shape of Milo,