George sank down and buried his face in his arms; neither movement nor sound betokened consciousness.

“Has Wetzel come in with Nell?  Joe said he had a cave where he might have taken her in case of illness or accident.”

“Yes, he brought her back,” answered Edwards, slowly.

“I want to see her,” said Jim, his haggard face expressing a keen anxiety.  “She’s not wounded? hurt? ill?”

“No, nothing like that.  It’s a shock which she can’t get over, can’t forget.”

“I must see her,” cried Jim, moving toward the door.

“Don’t go,” replied Dave, detaining him.  “Wait.  We must see what’s best to be done.  Wait till Heckewelder comes.  He’ll be here soon.  Nell thinks you’re dead, and the surprise might be bad for her.”

Heckewelder came in at that moment, and shook hands warmly with Jim.

“The Delaware runner told me you were here.  I am overjoyed that Wingenund freed you,” said the missionary.  “It is a most favorable sign.  I have heard rumors from Goshocking and Sandusky that have worried me.  This good news more than offsets the bad.  I am sorry about your brother.  Are you well?”

“Well, but miserable.  I want to see Nell.  Dave tells me she is not exactly ill, but something is wrong with her.  Perhaps I ought not to see her just yet.”

“It’ll be exactly the tonic for her,” replied Heckewelder.  “She’ll be surprised out of herself.  She is morbid, apathetic, and, try as we may, we can’t interest her.  Come at once.”

Heckewelder had taken Jim’s arm and started for the door when he caught sight of Young, sitting bowed and motionless.  Turning to Jim he whispered: 

“Kate?”

“Girty did not take her into the encampment,” answered Jim, in a low voice.  “I hoped he would, because the Indians are kind, but he didn’t.  He took her to his den.”

Just then Young raised his face.  The despair in it would have melted a heart of stone.  It had become the face of an old man.

“If only you’d told me she had died,” he said to Jim, “I’d have been man enough to stand it, but—­this—­this kills me—­I can’t breathe!”

He staggered into the adjoining room, where he flung himself upon a bed.

“It’s hard, and he won’t be able to stand up under it, for he’s not strong,” whispered Jim.

Heckewelder was a mild, pious man, in whom no one would ever expect strong passion; but now depths were stirred within his heart that had ever been tranquil.  He became livid, and his face was distorted with rage.

“It’s bad enough to have these renegades plotting and working against our religion; to have them sow discontent, spread lies, make the Indians think we have axes to grind, to plant the only obstacle in our path—­all this is bad; but to doom an innocent white woman to worse than death!  What can I call it!”

“What can we do?” asked Jim.

“Do?  That’s the worst of it.  We can do nothing, nothing.  We dare not move.”