Not one of them had observed the chief as he stood erect, motionless, poised like a stag scenting the air.  His dark eyes seemed to pierce the purple-golden forest, his keen ear seemed to drink in the singing of the birds and the gentle rustling of leaves.  Native to these haunts as were the wild creatures, they were no quicker than the Indian to feel the approach of foes.  The breeze had borne faint, suspicious sounds.

“Keep—­the—­Bible,” said Mr. Wells, “remember—­its—­word.”  His hand closely clasped Nell’s, and then suddenly loosened.  His pallid face was lighted by a meaning, tender smile which slowly faded—­faded, and was gone.  The venerable head fell back.  The old missionary was dead.

Nell kissed the pale, cold brow, and then rose, half dazed and shuddering.  Jim was vainly trying to close the dead man’s eyes.  She could no longer look.  On rising she found herself near the Indian chief.  He took her fingers in his great hand, and held them with a strong, warm pressure.  Strangely thrilled, she looked up at Wingenund.  His somber eyes, fixed piercingly on the forest, and his dark stern face, were, as always, inscrutable.  No compassion shone there; no emotion unbefitting a chieftain would ever find expression in that cold face, but Nell felt a certain tenderness in this Indian, a response in his great heart.  Felt it so surely, so powerfully that she leaned her head against him.  She knew he was her friend.

“Come,” said the chief once more.  He gently put Nell aside before Jim arose from his sad task.

“We can not leave him unburied,” expostulated Jim.

Wingenund dragged aside a large stone which formed one wall of the cavern.  Then he grasped a log which was half covered by dirt, and, exerting his great strength, pulled it from its place.  There was a crash, a rumble, the jar of a heavy weight striking the earth, then the rattling of gravel, and, before Nell and Jim realized what had happened, the great rock forming the roof of the cavern slipped down the bank followed by a small avalanche.  The cavern was completely covered.  Mr. Wells was buried.  A mossy stone marked the old missionary’s grave.

Nell and Jim were lost in wonder and awe.

“Ugh!” cried the chief, looking toward the opening in the glade.

Fearfully Nell and Jim turned, to be appalled by four naked, painted savages standing with leveled rifles.  Behind them stood Deering and Jim Girty.

“Oh, God!  We are lost!  Lost!  Lost!” exclaimed Jim, unable to command himself.  Hope died in his heart.

No cry issued from Nell’s white lips.  She was dazed by this final blow.  Having endured so much, this last misfortune, apparently the ruin of her life, brought no added suffering, only a strange, numb feeling.

“Ah-huh!  Thought you’d give me the slip, eh?” croaked Girty, striding forward, and as he looked at Wingenund his little, yellow eyes flared like flint.  “Does a wolf befriend Girty’s captives?  Chief you hev led me a hard chase.”