“I thank you for your advice, and bless you for your rescue of this child; but I can not leave my work, nor can I understand why all this good work we have done should be called useless.  We have converted Indians, saved their souls.  Is that not being of some use, of some good here?”

“It’s accordin’ to how you look at it.  Now I know the bark of an oak is different accordin’ to the side we see from.  I’ll allow, hatin’ Injuns as I do, is no reason you oughtn’t to try an’ convert ’em.  But you’re bringin’ on a war.  These Injuns won’t allow this Village of Peace here with its big fields of corn, an’ shops an’ workin’ redskins.  It’s agin their nature.  You’re only sacrificin’ your Christian Injuns.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Wells, startled by Wetzel’s words.

“Enough.  I’m ready to guide you to Fort Henry.”

“I’ll never go.”

Wetzel looked at the other men.  No one would have doubted him.  No one could have failed to see he knew that some terrible anger hovered over the Village of Peace.

“I believe you, Wetzel, but I can not go,” said Heckewelder, with white face.

“I will stay,” said George, steadily.

“And I,” said Dave.

Wetzel nodded, and turned to depart when George grasped his arm.  The young missionary’s face was drawn and haggard; he fixed an intense gaze upon the hunter.

“Wetzel, listen;” his voice was low and shaken with deep feeling.  “I am a teacher of God’s word, and I am as earnest in that purpose as you are in your life-work.  I shall die here; I shall fill an unmarked grave; but I shall have done the best I could.  This is the life destiny has marked out for me, and I will live it as best I may; but in this moment, preacher as I am, I would give all I have or hope to have, all the little good I may have done, all my life, to be such a man as you.  For I would avenge the woman I loved.  To torture, to kill Girty!  I am only a poor, weak fellow who would be lost a mile from this village, and if not, would fall before the youngest brave.  But you with your glorious strength, your incomparable woodcraft, you are the man to kill Girty.  Rid the frontier of this fiend.  Kill him!  Wetzel, kill him!  I beseech you for the sake of some sweet girl who even now may be on her way to this terrible country, and who may fall into Girty’s power—­for her sake, Wetzel, kill him.  Trail him like a bloodhound, and when you find him remember my broken heart, remember Nell, remember, oh, God! remember poor Kate!”

Young’s voice broke into dry sobs.  He had completely exhausted himself, so that he was forced to lean against the tree for support.

Wetzel spoke never a word.  He stretched out his long, brawny arm and gripped the young missionary’s shoulder.  His fingers clasped hard.  Simple, without words as the action was, it could not have been more potent.  And then, as he stood, the softer look faded slowly from his face.  A ripple seemed to run over his features, which froze, as it subsided, into a cold, stone rigidity.