“You are Major Wayland’s son,—­I remember the circumstances now, and that I endorsed such a letter.  ’T is most strange.  This girl disappeared from Dearborn some days ago.  Mrs. Heald heard the matter discussed among the ladies of the garrison, and then all supposed her to be at John Kinzie’s in company with Josette La Framboise; yet I would almost have sworn I saw her again, and not two hours ago, within the Fort.  By Saint George! the glimpse I got just now makes me doubt my own eyesight.  She was ever an odd creature,—­but what can bring her here, walking so freely about in this camp of vengeful savages?”

I could not answer him; the mystery was beyond my clearing.  Only, if this was the Elsa Matherson for whom I had sought so long, surely God had in some way led me on to find her; nor should any peril turn my quest aside.

I had hardly time for this resolve, ere the flap of the tepee was held back by a dark hand, and in grimly impressive silence warrior after warrior, plumed, painted, and gaudily bedecked with savage ornaments, stalked solemnly within, circled about us without sign of greeting, and seated themselves cross-legged upon the bare ground.  The uplifted door-skin permitted the red flames from without to play freely over their stern, impassive faces, and shone back upon us from their glittering eyes.  It was an impressive scene, their stoical demeanor breathing the deep solemnity of the vast woods and plains amid which their savage lives were passed; nor could one fail to feel the deep gravity with which they gathered in this council of life or death.  To them it was evident that the meeting was of most serious portent.

I saw only two faces that I recognized in that red ring,—­Topenebe and Little Sauk.  I knew, however, it was probable there were some great chiefs among that company; and I marked especially two, one with long white hair, and a tall, slender, rather young fellow, having two wide streaks of yellow down either cheek.

The Indians sat motionless, gazing intently at us; and I swept the entire dark circle of scowling faces, vainly endeavoring to find one hopeful glance, one friendly eye.  Open hatred, undisguised distrust, implacable enmity, were stamped on every feature.  Whatever our plea might be, I felt convinced that the chiefs were here only to carry out their own purposes and make mock of every offering of peace.

After several moments of this painful silence, the chief with the long white hair deliberately lighted a large pipe drawn from his belt.  It was curiously and grotesquely fashioned, the huge bowl carved to resemble the head of a bear.  He drew from the stem a single thick volume of smoke, breathed it out into the air, and solemnly passed the pipe to the warrior seated upon his right.  With slow deliberation, the symbol moved around the impassive and emotionless circle, passing from one red hand to another, until it finally came back to him who had first lighted it.  Without so much as a word being uttered, he gravely offered it to Captain Heald.  I heard, and understood, the quick sigh of relief with which my companion grasped it; he drew a breath of the tobacco, and I followed his example, handing back the smoking pipe to the white-haired chief without rising, amid the same impressive silence.