The twilight passed, night came, but they waited with infinite patience refusing to move too soon, despite their great thirst.  Instead, Tayoga suggested that he go to the crest of the cliff and see if there was a possible way out for them in that direction.  Willet agreed, and the Onondaga crept up, without sound, disappearing in a few seconds among the short bushes that hung in the face of the cliff.

Tayoga was a trailer of surpassing skill, and he reached the top without rustling a bush or sending a single pebble rolling.  Then he peered cautiously over the rim and beheld a great fire burning not more than a hundred yards away.  Thirty or forty warriors were sitting around it, eating.  He did not see Tandakora among them, but he surmised, that it was an allied band and that the Ojibway was not far off.

The feast that the three had expected was in full progress.  The hunt had been successful, and the Indians, with their usual appetites, were enjoying the results.  They broiled or roasted great pieces of deer over the coals, and then devoured them to the last shred.  But Tayoga saw that while the majority were absorbed in their pleasant task, a half dozen sentinels, their line extending on either side of the camp, kept vigilant watch.  It would be impossible for the three to pass there.  They would have to go down to the lake for water, and then hide in their niche.

Tayoga was about to turn back from the cliff, when he heard a shout that he knew was full of significance.  He understood the meaning of every cry and he translated it at once into a note of triumph.  It sounded like the whoop over the taking of a scalp or the capture of a prisoner, and his curiosity was aroused.  Something had happened, and he was resolved to see what it was.

Several of the warriors by the fire replied to the whoop, and then it came again, nearer but with exactly the same note, that of triumph.  The Onondaga flattened his body against the earth, and drew himself a little higher.  In the dusk, his black eyes glowed with interest, but he knew that his curiosity would soon be gratified.  Those who had sent forth the cry were swiftly approaching the camp.

Four warriors came through the undergrowth and they were pushing a figure before them.  It was that of a man in a bedraggled and torn red uniform, his hands tied behind him, and all the color gone from his face.  Powerful as was his self-control, Tayoga uttered a low cry of surprise.  It was the young Englishman, Grosvenor, a prisoner of the hostile warriors, and in a most desperate case.

The Onondaga wondered how he had been taken, but whatever the way, he was in the hands of enemies who knew little mercy.