I approached the place from the rear, peering in through the narrow openings between the upright poles.  The light was so poor I was not able to perceive much, but did succeed in fully convincing myself that the dismal shack was unoccupied.  The door stood unlatched and I pushed it open.  A single glance served to reveal everything the place contained.  Without doubt it had been the late abode of Indians, who, in all probability had fled hastily to join Black Hawk in his foray up Rock River.  There was no pretense at furniture of any description—­nothing, indeed, but bare walls and trampled dirt floor, but what interested me most was a small bit of jerked deer meat which still hung against an upright and the rude stone fireplace in the center of the hut, with an opening above to carry away the smoke.  I had found during the night a fair supply of hard bread in my saddle-bag, and now, with this additional gift of Providence, felt assured, at least, of one sufficient meal.  I stood there for perhaps a minute, staring wonderingly about that gloomy interior, but making no further discoveries, then I returned without and called to the others.

“It is all right, Tim, there is no one here.  An old Indian camp, with nothing but a junk of jerked deer meat left behind.  Elsie, gather up some of that old wood yonder and build a fire.  Kennedy and I will look after Miss Beaucaire.”

It was bright day by this time, the red of the rising sun in the sky, and I could trace the radius of swamp land stretching about us on every hand, a grim, desolate scene even in the beauty of that clear dawn.  We had been fortunate enough to approach the spot along the only available pathway which led to this little oasis, and a more secure hiding place it would be difficult to find.  The tree growth and heavy underbrush completely concealed the miserable shack from view in every direction, and what faint trail we had left behind us since we took to the water of the creek would be extremely hard to follow.  I felt almost at ease for the present and satisfied to rest here for several hours.

Tim assisted me in unstrapping Eloise, and lifting her from the saddle, and, as she made no effort to help herself, the two of us carried her to a warm, sunny spot beside the wall of the hut.  Her cramped limbs refused to support her body, and her eyes, then open, yet retained that vacant look so noticeable from the first.  The only change was in the puzzled way with which she stared into our faces, as though memory might be struggling back, and she was vaguely endeavoring to understand.  Except for this pathetic look, she had never appeared more attractive to my eyes, with color in cheeks and lips.  Her hood had fallen backward, revealing her glossy hair still smoothly brushed, while the brilliancy of the sunlight only made more manifest the delicate beauty of her features.  Tim led the horses away and staked them out where they could crop the rich, dewy grass.  After removing the saddles, he followed the mulatto girl into the hut, and I could hear the murmur of their voices.  I endeavored to address Eloise, seeking thus to awaken her to some sense of my presence, but she merely smiled meaninglessly, leaned her head wearily back against the poles and closed her eyes.