shouts of disapproval.  There was a surging forward of the straining red line, while in their front howled and gesticulated the hideous old medicine-man, his painted face distorted by passion, eager to grasp this auspicious moment to cast down forever one who had sought to end his superstitious rule among the tribe.  I marked how she drew back as they advanced, retreating step by step,—­not, indeed, as if she feared them, but rather as if some definite purpose led her movement.  Her eyes never wavered, her hand still uplifted the gleaming cross, as she retreated slowly, until she stood directly before De Croix, where he hung helplessly staring at her with an expression of fear in his face strangely at variance with his late show of desperate courage.

“Back!” she cried again, but now in a deeper and fuller voice that sounded like a clear-toned bell above the uproar.  “I tell you I will kill this man with my own hand before I permit you to put further torture upon him!”

An instant only did this threat halt the gathering rush.  Some one voiced an Indian insult, and there came a fierce surging forward, although no warrior among them seemed eager to lead in the attack.  I saw the woman lift her hand, and caught the glimmer of a steel blade; and even as I sprang erect, partially flinging aside the obstructing flap of the lodge, an Indian, stalking silently forth from the shadows, faced the mob, standing motionless within a foot of the desperate girl, and with his back toward her.  One glance at that tall thin figure, the stern face, the long white hair, told me it was the great war-chief of the Pottawattomies, Gomo; and I sank back trembling from the reaction of that moment’s strain.

His words were calm, deliberate, commanding; but the angry roar with which they were greeted made me fear the horde he faced so resolutely was now beyond control.  He smiled, his thin lips curling in derision as he gazed with contempt into the threatening faces pressing closer upon every side.

“Fear not,” he murmured aside to the watchful woman, and resting one hand upon her arm.  “Cut loose the prisoner!”

She turned instantly to her task, while he spoke briefly the names of his chiefs; and as each was called in turn, a warrior came from among the mass and silently stood beside him.  A dozen came forth thus, stalwart, grim-faced braves, many with fresh scalps dangling at their belts.

Gomo now spoke again, using the French tongue, that all present might better grasp his meaning.

“Brothers,” he said gravely, “this squaw is Pottawattomie.  She was adopted by our people and lives in our lodges.  Pottawattomies are friends to Frenchmen; there is no war between us.  Why should Wyandots and Sacs wish to burn a Frenchman?”

For a moment no one ventured to reply; the mob stood halted now, robbed of its leaders and its courage, even the noisy medicine-man silenced before this stern array of protecting chiefs.  Loose as was Indian discipline and tribal authority, even in drunkenness those desperate warriors dared not openly disregard such a display of power.