“Give us knives, or anything,” panted Clarke.

“Yes, let us fight it out now,” said Miller.

“Capt.  Boggs, take Clarke to the block-house.  Make him stay there if you have to lock him up,” commanded Col.  Zane.  “Miller, as for you, I cannot condemn you without proof.  If I knew positively that there were Indians on the island and that you were aware of it, you would be a dead man in less time than it takes to say it.  I will give you the benefit of the doubt and twenty-four hours to leave the Fort.”

The villagers dispersed and went to their homes.  They were inclined to take Clarke’s side.  Miller had become disliked.  His drinking habits and his arrogant and bold manner had slowly undermined the friendships he had made during the early part of his stay at Ft.  Henry; while Clarke’s good humor and willingness to help any one, his gentleness with the children, and his several acts of heroism had strengthened their regard.

“Jonathan, this looks like some of Girty’s work.  I wish I knew the truth,” said Col.  Zane, as he, his brothers and Betty and Myeerah entered the house.  “Confound it!  We can’t have even one afternoon of enjoyment.  I must see Lewis.  I cannot be sure of Clarke.  He is evidently bitter against Miller.  That would have been a terrible fight.  Those fellows have had trouble before, and I am afraid we have not seen the last of their quarrel.”

“If they meet again—­but how can you keep them apart?” said Silas.  “If Miller leaves the Fort without killing Clarke he’ll hide around in the woods and wait for a chance to shoot him.”

“Not with Wetzel here,” answered Col.  Zane.  “Betty, do you see what your—­” he began, turning to his sister, but when he saw her white and miserable face he said no more.

“Don’t mind, Betts.  It wasn’t any fault of yours,” said Isaac, putting his arm tenderly round the trembling girl.  “I for another believe Clarke was right when he said Miller knew there were Indians over the river.  It looks like a plot to abduct you.  Have no fear for Alfred.  He can take care of himself.  He showed that pretty well.”

An hour later Clarke had finished his supper and was sitting by his window smoking his pipe.  His anger had cooled somewhat and his reflections were not of the pleasantest kind.  He regretted that he lowered himself so far as to fight with a man little better than an outlaw.  Still there was a grim satisfaction in the thought of the blow he had given Miller.  He remembered he had asked for a knife and that his enemy and he be permitted to fight to the death.  After all to have ended, then and there, the feud between them would have been the better course; for he well knew Miller’s desperate character, that he had killed more than one white man, and that now a fair fight might not be possible.  Well, he thought, what did it matter?  He was not going to worry himself.  He did not care much, one way or another.  He had no home; he could not make one without the woman he loved.  He was a Soldier of Fortune; he was at the mercy of Fate, and he would drift along and let what came be welcome.  A soft footfall on the stairs and a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.