Wingenund once more paced before his silent chiefs.  To deal rightly with this situation perplexed him.  To kill both palefaces did not suit him.  Suddenly he thought of a way to decide.

“Let Wingenund’s daughter come,” he ordered.

A slight, girlish figure entered.  It was Whispering Winds.  Her beautiful face glowed while she listened to her father.

“Wingenund’s daughter has her mother’s eyes, that were beautiful as a doe’s, keen as a hawk’s, far-seeing as an eagle’s.  Let the Delaware maiden show her blood.  Let her point out the white father.”

Shyly but unhesitatingly Whispering Winds laid her hand Jim’s arm.

“Missionary, begone!” came the chieftain’s command.  “Thank Wingenund’s daughter for your life, not the God of your Christians!”

He waved his hand to the runner.  The brave grasped Jim’s arm.

“Good-by, Joe,” brokenly said Jim.

“Old fellow, good-by,” came the answer.

They took one last, long look into each others’ eyes.  Jim’s glance betrayed his fear—­he would never see his brother again.  The light in Joe’s eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable spirit—­while there was life there was hope.

“Let the Shawnee chief paint his prisoner black,” commanded Wingenund.

When the missionary left the lodge with the runner, Whispering Winds had smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but the dread command that followed paled her cheek.  Black paint meant hideous death.  She saw this man so like the white father.  Her piteous gaze tried to turn from that white face; but the cold, steely eyes fascinated her.

She had saved one only to be the other’s doom!

She had always been drawn toward white men.  Many prisoners had she rescued.  She had even befriended her nation’s bitter foe, Deathwind.  She had listened to the young missionary with rapture; she had been his savior.  And now when she looked into the eyes of this young giant, whose fate had rested on her all unwitting words, she resolved to save him.

She had been a shy, shrinking creature, fearing to lift her eyes to a paleface’s, but now they were raised clear and steadfast.

As she stepped toward the captive and took his hand, her whole person radiated with conscious pride in her power.  It was the knowledge that she could save.  When she kissed his hand, and knelt before him, she expressed a tender humility.

She had claimed questionable right of an Indian maiden; she asked what no Indian dared refuse a chief’s daughter; she took the paleface for her husband.

Her action was followed by an impressive silence.  She remained kneeling.  Wingenund resumed his slow march to and fro.  Silvertip retired to his corner with gloomy face.  The others bowed their heads as if the maiden’s decree was irrevocable.

Once more the chieftain’s sonorous command rang out.  An old Indian, wrinkled and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the lodge and waved his wampum wand.  He mumbled strange words, and departed chanting a long song.