“Ugh!” exclaimed the Indian, bending over the dark pool.  He looked long into its murky depths.  Then he thrust his arm down into the brown water.

“Deathwind tells no lie,” said the chief, calmly, and pointed toward Girty.  The renegade had ceased struggling, his head was bowed upon his breast.  “The white serpent has stung the Delaware.”

“What does it mean?” cried Jim.

“Your brother Joe and Whispering Winds lie in the spring,” answered Jonathan Zane.  “Girty murdered them, and Wetzel buried the two there.”

“Oh, is it true?” cried Nell.

“True, lass,” whispered Jim, brokenly, holding out his arms to her.  Indeed, he needed her strength as much as she needed his.  The girl gave one shuddering glance at the spring, and then hid her face on her husband’s shoulder.

“Delaware, we are sworn foes,” cried Wetzel.

“Wingenund asks no mercy.”

“Are you a Christian?”

“Wingenund is true to his race.”

“Delaware, begone!  Take these weapons an’ go.  When your shadow falls shortest on the ground, Deathwind starts on your trail.”

“Deathwind is the great white chief; he is the great Indian foe; he is as sure as the panther in his leap; as swift as the wild goose in his northern flight.  Wingenund never felt fear.”  The chieftain’s sonorous reply rolled through the quiet glade.  “If Deathwind thirsts for Wingenund’s blood, let him spill it now, for when the Delaware goes into the forest his trail will fade.”

“Begone!” roared Wetzel.  The fever for blood was once more rising within him.

The chief picked up some weapons of the dead Indians, and with haughty stride stalked from the glade.

“Oh, Wetzel, thank you, I knew—–­” Nell’s voice broke as she faced the hunter.  She recoiled from this changed man.

“Come, we’ll go,” said Jonathan Zane.  “I’ll guide you to Fort Henry.”  He lifted the pack, and led Nell and Jim out of the glade.

They looked back once to picture forever in their minds the lovely spot with its ghastly quiet bodies, the dark, haunting spring, the renegade nailed to the tree, and the tall figure of Wetzel as he watched his shadow on the ground.

* * *

When Wetzel also had gone, only two living creatures remained in the glade—­the doomed renegade, and the white dog.  The gaunt beast watched the man with hungry, mad eyes.

A long moan wailed through the forest.  It swelled mournfully on the air, and died away.  The doomed man heard it.  He raised his ghastly face; his dulled senses seemed to revive.  He gazed at the stiffening bodies of the Indians, at the gory corpse of Deering, at the savage eyes of the dog.

Suddenly life seemed to surge strong within him.

“Hell’s fire!  I’m not done fer yet,” he gasped.  “This damned knife can’t kill me; I’ll pull it out.”

He worked at the heavy knife hilt.  Awful curses passed his lips, but the blade did not move.  Retribution had spoken his doom.