For a moment after their departure Frank remained in a sort of stupor. They had closed the door behind them, and the only light came in by the broken window. Out there was the open air, freedom, life; in the hut was a boy on the brink of eternity.

Death was close to Frank Merriwell then. He knew it. A prayer welled up to his lips.

“God help me!”

He was frightened, but still he controlled his nerves and did not utter a single cry of terror. He knew it was useless, and he would not give those ruffians the satisfaction of hearing him shout for help. If die he must, he would die without squealing!

But he did not want to die. He was young, and life seemed good to him. It was an awful thing to be blotted out of existence in a fraction of a second—to be utterly destroyed in all his health and strength.

He felt weak and unable to move so much as his head. Had he been free he would have fought like a tiger even though he were facing odds that meant certain annihilation in the end. But it was soul-crushing to be destroyed thus, utterly helpless, without the ability to lift a hand to save himself.

He twisted his neck about and looked over his shoulder at the fuse, seeing the smoke rising behind him, seeing the[148] spark of fire creeping steadily and swiftly toward the powder that would blow him into eternity.

Then he tried to reach it with his teeth and tear it from the barrel. He tipped far back and grasped at it, but missed it. With frantic haste he tried again, for the fuse was growing short with fearful swiftness. In a few more moments it would not be long enough for him to reach with his mouth.

A shadow darkened the window; a voice called:

“Mr. Merriwell, are you there?”

“Here!” gasped Frank. “Quick—save me! The fuse—the powder! It will——”

Crack!—a revolver spoke. The person outside had fired through the window, and the bullet had cut off the burning end of the fuse just as the fire was about to run down into the barrel.

Then the door was torn open, and Hilda Dugan, flushed with excitement and exertion, sprang in. She was dressed in a short hunting skirt, with leggings of russet leather to her knees, and on her head a cap was jauntily set. In one hand she carried the rifle, while the other held the still smoking revolver.

With a bound she reached the barrel and knocked the bit of burning fuse off the end. A moment later she whipped out a knife and began to cut the rope that held Merriwell helpless.

Soon Merry was free, although it scarcely seemed possible to him that he had escaped death. And he owed his life to the daughter of Dugan the smuggler!

“I was waiting for you,” she said; “but I realized that[149] father and Jones were watching for you also. I induced father to give me the rifle, and here it is. I told you I would help you recover it. I have kept my word.”

“And saved my life in the bargain!” cried Frank, clasping her hand. “I shall never be able to repay that!”

“I followed them across in my canoe,” she said; “and that is how I came to reach here in time.”

“You have been my good angel, Miss Dugan! Never as long as I live shall I forget what you have done this day!”

“We must get away. If they heard my shot——”

She stepped to the door, and then a cry of fear escaped her lips.

“They did hear it. They are coming. We must run.”

Frank followed her from the hut, but they were confronted by Dugan and Jones, who were running along the road. When he saw Merriwell free, the leader uttered an oath and fired at him with a revolver that he had drawn as he ran.

The girl saw the movement of her father, and, in an attempt to stop him, she flung herself in front of Frank. With the shot, she staggered and dropped into Me............