The White Chief is known to be brave; his step is light, his eye is keen, and his bullet is true.  For many long moons Tarhe’s daughter has been like the singing bird without its mate.  She sings no more.  She shall be the White Chief’s wife.  She has the blood of her mother and not that of the last of the Tarhes.  Thus the mistakes of Tarhe’s youth come to disappoint his old age.  He is the friend of the young paleface.  Tarhe has said.  Now go and make your peace with Myeerah.”

The chief motioned toward the back of the lodge.  Isaac stepped forward and went through another large room, evidently the chief’s, as it was fitted up with a wild and barbaric splendor.  Isaac hesitated before a bearskin curtain at the farther end of the chief’s lodge.  He had been there many times before, but never with such conflicting emotions.  What was it that made his heart beat faster?  With a quick movement he lifted the curtain and passed under it.

The room which he entered was circular in shape and furnished with all the bright colors and luxuriance known to the Indian.  Buffalo robes covered the smooth, hard-packed clay floor; animals, allegorical pictures, and fanciful Indian designs had been painted on the wall; bows and arrows, shields, strings of bright-colored beads and Indian scarfs hung round the room.  The wall was made of dried deerskins sewed together and fastened over long poles which were planted in the ground and bent until the ends met overhead.  An oval-shaped opening let in the light.  Through a narrow aperture, which served as a door leading to a smaller apartment, could be seen a low couch covered with red blankets, and a glimpse of many hued garments hanging on the wall.

As Isaac entered the room a slender maiden ran impulsively to him and throwing her arms round his neck hid her face on his breast.  A few broken, incoherent words escaped her lips.  Isaac disengaged himself from the clinging arms and put her from him.  The face raised to his was strikingly beautiful.  Oval in shape, it was as white as his own, with a broad, low brow and regular features.  The eyes were large and dark and they dilated and quickened with a thousand shadows of thought.

“Myeerah, I am taken again.  This time there has been blood shed.  The Delaware chief was killed, and I do not know how many more Indians.  The chiefs are all for putting me to death.  I am in great danger.  Why could you not leave me in peace?”

At his first words the maiden sighed and turned sorrowfully and proudly away from the angry face of the young man.  A short silence ensued.

“Then you are not glad to see Myeerah?” she said, in English.  Her voice was music.  It rang low, sweet, clear-toned as a bell.

“What has that to do with it?  Under some circumstances I would be glad to see you.  But to be dragged back here and perhaps murdered—­no, I don’t welcome it.  Look at this mark where Crow hit me,” said Isaac, passionately, bowing his head to enable her to see the bruise where the club had struck him.