He rose again to his feet and peered out from under the shading laurel branches.  As he did so the dark face of Miller turned full toward him.  A tremor, like the intense thrill of a tiger when he is about to spring, ran over Wetzel’s frame.  In his mad gladness at being within rifle-shot of his great Indian foe, Wetzel had forgotten the man he had trailed for two days.  He had forgotten Miller.  He had only one shot—­and Betty was to be avenged.  He gritted his teeth.  The Delaware chief was as safe as though he were a thousand miles away.  This opportunity for which Wetzel had waited so many years, and the successful issue of which would have gone so far toward the fulfillment of a life’s purpose, was worse than useless.  A great temptation assailed the hunter.

Wetzel’s face was white when he raised the rifle; his dark eye, gleaming vengefully, ran along the barrel.  The little bead on the front sight first covered the British officer, and then the broad breast of Girty.  It moved reluctantly and searched out the heart of Wingenund, where it lingered for a fleeting instant.  At last it rested upon the swarthy face of Miller.

“Fer Betty,” muttered the hunter, between his clenched teeth as he pressed the trigger.

The spiteful report awoke a thousand echoes.  When the shot broke the stillness Miller was talking and gesticulating.  His hand dropped inertly; he stood upright for a second, his head slowly bowing and his body swaying perceptibly.  Then he plunged forward like a log, his face striking the sand.  He never moved again.  He was dead even before he struck the ground.

Blank silence followed this tragic denouement.  Wingenund, a cruel and relentless Indian, but never a traitor, pointed to the small bloody hole in the middle of Miller’s forehead, and then nodded his head solemnly.  The wondering Indians stood aghast.  Then with loud yells the braves ran to the cornfield; they searched the laurel bushes.  But they only discovered several moccasin prints in the sand, and a puff of white smoke wafting away upon the summer breeze.

CHAPTER XII.

Alfred Clarke lay between life and death.  Miller’s knife-thrust, although it had made a deep and dangerous wound, had not pierced any vital part; the amount of blood lost made Alfred’s condition precarious.  Indeed, he would not have lived through that first day but for a wonderful vitality.  Col.  Zane’s wife, to whom had been consigned the delicate task of dressing the wound, shook her head when she first saw the direction of the cut.  She found on a closer examination that the knife-blade had been deflected by a rib, and had just missed the lungs.  The wound was bathed, sewed up, and bandaged, and the greatest precaution taken to prevent the sufferer from loosening the linen.  Every day when Mrs. Zane returned from the bedside of the young man she would be met at the door by Betty, who, in that time of suspense, had lost her bloom, and whose pale face showed the effects of sleepless nights.