"It is always a stranger's honor," she said; so I advanced, drawing my
light, keen weapon from its beaded sheath, which I had belted round me;
and Ruyven took station by the post, ten paces to the right.

The post was painted scarlet, ringed with white above; below, in
outline, the form of a man--an Indian--with folded arms, also drawn in
white paint. The play was simple; the hatchet must imbed its blade close
to the outlined shape, yet not "wound" or "draw blood."

"Brant at first refused to cast against that figure," said Harry,
laughing. "He consented only because the figure, though Indian, was
painted white."

I scarce heard him as I stood measuring with my eyes the distance. Then,
taking one step forward to the willow wand, I hurled the hatchet, and it
landed quivering in the shoulder of the outlined figure on the post.

"A wound!" cried Cecile; and, mortified, I stepped back, biting my lip,
while Harry notched one point against me on the willow wand and Dorothy,
tightening her girdle, whipped out her bright war-axe and stepped
forward. Nor did she even pause to scan the post; her arm shot up, the
keen axe-blade glittered and flew, sparkling and whirling, biting into
the post, chuck! handle a-quiver. And you could not have laid a June
willow-leaf betwixt the Indian's head and the hatchet's blade.

She turned to me, lips parted in a tormenting smile, and I praised the
cast and took my hatchet from Ruyven to try once more. Yet again I broke
skin on the thigh of the pictured captive; and again the glistening axe
left Dorothy's hand, whirring to a safe score, a grass-stem's width from