“Wetzel! wait, wait!” cried Jim, grasping the hunter’s arm; but the latter flung him off, as the wind tosses a straw.

“Wetzel, wait, for God’s sake, wait!” screamed Nell.  She had risen at Zane’s call, and now saw the deadly resolve in the hunter’s eyes.  Fearlessly she flung herself in front of him; bravely she risked her life before his mad rush; frantically she threw her arms around him and clung to his hands desperately.

Wetzel halted; frenzied as he was at the sight of his foe, he could not hurt a woman.

“Girl, let go!” he panted, and his broad breast heaved.

“No, no, no!  Listen, Wetzel, you must not kill the chief.  He is a friend.”

“He is my great foe!”

“Listen, oh! please listen!” pleaded Nell.  “He warned me to flee from Girty; he offered to guide us to Fort Henry.  He has saved my life.  For my sake, Wetzel, do not kill him!  Don’t let me be the cause of his murder!  Wetzel, Wetzel, lower your arm, drop your hatchet.  For pity’s sake do not spill more blood.  Wingenund is a Christian!”

Wetzel stepped back breathing heavily.  His white face resembled chiseled marble.  With those little hands at his breast he hesitated in front of the chief he had hunted for so many long years.

“Would you kill a Christian?” pleaded Nell, her voice sweet and earnest.

“I reckon not, but this Injun ain’t one,” replied Wetzel slowly.

“Put away your hatchet.  Let me have it.  Listen, and I will tell you, after thanking you for this rescue.  Do you know of my marriage?  Come, please listen!  Forget for a moment your enmity.  Oh! you must be merciful!  Brave men are always merciful!”

“Injun, are you a Christian?” hissed Wetzel.

“Oh!  I know he is!  I know he is!” cried Nell, still standing between Wetzel and the chief.

Wingenund spoke no word.  He did not move.  His falcon eyes gazed tranquilly at his white foe.  Christian or pagan, he would not speak one word to save his life.

“Oh! tell him you are a Christian,” cried Nell, running to the chief.

“Yellow-hair, the Delaware is true to his race.”

As he spoke gently to Nell a noble dignity shone upon his dark face.

“Injun, my back bears the scars of your braves’ whips,” hissed Wetzel, once more advancing.

“Deathwind, your scars are deep, but the Delaware’s are deeper,” came the calm reply.  “Wingenund’s heart bears two scars.  His son lies under the moss and ferns; Deathwind killed him; Deathwind alone knows his grave.  Wingenund’s daughter, the delight of his waning years, freed the Delaware’s great foe, and betrayed her father.  Can the Christian God tell Wingenund of his child?”

Wetzel shook like a tree in a storm.  Justice cried out in the Indian’s deep voice.  Wetzel fought for mastery of himself.

“Delaware, your daughter lays there, with her lover,” said Wetzel firmly, and pointed into the spring.