The trained hand flew to the pocket and the ready revolver leaped forth.

Nance staggered back, the dagger falling from her nerveless hand, as in
abject terror she crouched on a chair.

"Don't shoot! don't shoot! See, I won't hurt you," she moaned.

Grasping her by the wrist, and pressing the revolver to her head, Sam
said, sternly, and in a voice that would brook no delay:

"What have you done with the man brought here last night?"

Nance pointed to the next room, too frightened to speak, and thrusting
her forward, Sam continued his search.

Chip, his head covered with a bandage, and still somewhat confused,
recognized his comrade as he entered the room. His mind was clear
enough, however, to appreciate the situation, when the terror-stricken
hag, pointing her long skinny finger at him, quivered in a tremulous
voice: "He's alive; don't you see he's alive?"

Overjoyed at finding Chip safe and still alive, Sam clasped his hands.

"Can you walk, Chip?" he asked,

"I don't know, Sam. I had a devilish close call," and Chip threw back
the covers and essayed to step from the bed. His limbs trembled, and
throwing up his hands despairingly, he sank back again. A flask of
brandy stood on the table, and in an instant Sam had the cork out and
had poured some of its contents down his friend's throat.