“A slight misunderstanding, which will hardly grow to any serious end,” he protested.

“I trust not, gentlemen, for the time is come when we women at Dearborn surely need you all to protect us.  Our case already appears desperate.”

“Has something new occurred,” I questioned anxiously, “that makes you more alarmed?”

Her eyes, grown strangely serious once more, swept our faces.

“You may neither of you comprehend this in its full meaning as clearly as I do,” she returned gravely, “for I am frontier-bred, and have known the Indian character from childhood.  We have long been acquainted, in my father’s family, with many of the chiefs and warriors now encamped around us.  We have traded in their villages, lived with them in their smoke-stained tepees on the great plains, and trusted them as they showed faith in us.  You, I learn,” and she looked at me more intently, “were at my father’s house no later than last night.  In spite of rumors of war and tightly guarded Fort-gates, you found his door wide open to whosoever might approach, with never a dog to bark at an intruder, be he white or red.  This is because the Silver-man has always dealt fairly with the Indian, and won his respect and gratitude in return.  Now, in time of peril this trader dares to believe in their good faith toward him and his.  ’T is because of this I know so well all that is going on without, and have been able to inform Captain Heald of much his scouts were unable to discover.  From the first there have been two factions among the savages gathered yonder; and whether we live or die may depend upon which counsel prevails among them—­that of peace or that of war.  Until within an hour I have hoped it might be peace,—­that the older chiefs would hold their young men in control, and the red wampum be not seen at Dearborn.  Twenty minutes ago one of the noblest advocates of peace,—­a Pottawattomie warrior named Black Partridge,—­sought interview with Captain Heald, and his words have shown me how desperate indeed has our situation become.”

“He threatened?” broke in De Croix, his hand upon his sword-hilt.

“Nay, Monsieur, ’t is not the way of an Indian, nor is Black Partridge one to indulge in vain words.  I have known him long; in childhood I sat upon his knee, and believe him so friendly to the whites that naught but a sense of duty could move him otherwise.  Yet, as I say, he came just now to the commandant of this garrison, and returned a medal once given him by the government.  It was done sadly, and with deep regret,—­for I overheard his speech.  He said:  ’Father, I come to deliver up to you the medal I wear.  It was given me by the Americans, and I have long worn it in token of our mutual friendship.  Our young men are resolved to imbue their hands in the blood of the whites.  I cannot restrain them, and I will not wear a token of peace while I am compelled to act as an enemy.’”