"Whither you go," replied the other, "there must I go also," and so they left the house in company. They heard the old Canadian couple who owned it moving about as they went out, but did not stop to speak to them. As they gained the road, the firing, which had been momentarily silenced, broke out afresh apparently nearer than before. In Major Hester's quarters they saw a dim light, and with clasped hands they started to run toward it.

At that moment a score of dark figures appeared, coming swiftly from the direction of the light. The next instant the girls were surrounded, seized in brawny arms, and borne away, their gasping cries of terror being smothered ere they were fully uttered.

An hour later, in the gray of dawn, two young men came hurrying down the road. "Is that the place, Atoka?" asked one, pointing to the house occupied by Major Hester, in front of which a little group of frightened Canadian peasants were gathered.

His companion nodded assent, whereupon the other exclaimed, "Thank God, there has been no fighting here!" Then he sprang forward, scattering the Canadians, who recoiled in terror at his sudden appearance, and entered the house. In another minute a bitter cry rang from the open windows, and the hearers crossed themselves at the sound.

Donald Hester had discovered his father lying in a pool of blood, from which none had dared lift him, and pierced by a dozen wounds, but still breathing.

"Father! Dear father! Speak to me. It is your own boy, Donald!" cried the youth in pitiful accents, as he raised the prostrate form in his arms. "Tell me, father, who has done this thing."

The dying man opened his eyes, and fixed them full on the face of his son. For a few seconds he gazed on the loved features, and his lips moved as in a blessing, though no sound came from them. Then, with a smile of ineffable sweetness, and a sigh of perfect content, the light faded from the dear eyes, and the spirit of the brave old soldier passed gently from the war-worn body into the fadeless dawn of eternity.

Very tenderly did Donald lift the lifeless body of his father to the humble pallet that had been the soldier's bed for many weeks. Then he sat beside it, keeping motionless watch over his dead, while Atoka stood silently in the doorway guarding the grief of his friend from curious intrusion.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE CURSE OF THE MAGIC CIRCLE

From the moment that Donald Hester's brave shout of warning saved the schooner Gladwyn from capture, he was like one who sleeps, until he awoke to consciousness amid the strange surroundings of an Indian lodge. Soft hands were bathing his throbbing brow, and when he opened his eyes they rested on a face of such loveliness, and at the same time so filled with pity, that it seemed to him but the fairest fragment of a beautiful dream. The radiant smile that greeted his restoration to life gave the face a strangely familiar look; but he was too weak to remember where he had seen it, and fell asleep from the weariness of the effort. When he next awoke he was much stronger, and gazed eagerly about with the hope that the face might prove a reality; but nowhere could he discover it, nor did it appear to him again.

He was devotedly cared for by an old squaw, the most skilled nurse in all the Ottawa tribe, and by a young warrior whom he came to know as Atoka. Others occasionally visited the lodge, but never the one he longed to see, and so he finally decided that the face had indeed come to him in a dream and not in reality.

Aided by youth and the magic of Indian simples, Donald's recovery was certain and rapid. Atoka was his constant companion, and, to while away the slow hours, each taught the other his own language. One day the Indian lad made mention of his sister Ah-mo, and Donald caught eagerly at the name. At once it was connected with his vision and with a long ago day of sunshine on the river.

"Is she not the daughter of Pontiac?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"Then you must be a son of the great chief?"

"I am his son," replied the young Indian, proudly.

"Am I, then, Pontiac's prisoner?"

"No. One bearing the sign of the Metai may be Pontiac's guest, but never his prisoner."

"Ah, yes! I forgot my symbolic marking. But tell me, Atoka, was not your sister with two white women on an island not long since?"

"She was. But they were taken to Detroit in exchange for prisoners held in the fort."

In saying this Atoka believed he was telling the truth, for he knew not that Edith still remained in the Ottawa village. From the day that Donald was placed in his charge he had not left the island, nor had any of its other occupants, save occasionally to hunt or fish, for Pontiac did not wish it generally known that a white captive was held there.

As the means of intelligent intercourse between the young men increased, Donald learned many other things of which he had been ignorant, and among them that his own father was also a prisoner, or, as Atoka said, a guest, in the Ottawa village.

"When you have recovered your full strength, then am I to take you to him, for so Pontiac has ordered," added Atoka.

Thus inspired to gain strength, Donald did so with such rapidity that, a week later, he was able to throw Atoka in a wrestling match, and the young warrior sent word to his father that he should bring his charge to the village on the following day.

Donald was so excited at the prospect of a near reunion with his beloved parent, that, to his impatience, no hours had ever seemed so long as did those of that last day of his seclusion. He retired early in order to shorten them by sleep, but was wide awake when startled by the sound of distant, though heavy and continuous firing.

"It is an attack on the Ottawa village," he said.

"Or on the fort," answered Atoka.

Both were so impatient to visit the scene of conflict that neither needed to be reminded of their purpose to go to the village on that very day. So in a few minutes they had launched a canoe and set forth, with what results, we have already learned.

As Donald watched beside his father's body, a hand was laid on his shoulder, and one whom he recognized as Pontiac stood beside him, his stern face softened by sorrow.

"He was my friend," said the chieftain. "I loved him with a love that was more than that of a brother. Now that he has gone, night has fallen, and all things are hidden in darkness. Long years ago he saved my life, and in so doing made an enemy of him who has now taken his in revenge. This man is a dog of dogs, and from this hour he is outcast among the children of the forest. With the curse of the Metai shall he be cursed, he and his forever. I, Pontiac, Chief of the Magic Circle, have said it."

"What is his name, and where may he be found?" asked Donald, eagerly.

"His name is Mahng, and he is of the Ojibwas, though where he may be found I know not yet. But found he must be, for not only is he the murderer of thy father and my friend, and a traitor to all in whose veins runs Indian blood, but he has stolen and taken with him those most dear to thee and to me, thy sister and my daughter."

"What!" cried Donald, springing to his feet. "My sister, say you? Is she not safe in the fort?"

"No," answered Pontiac, sadly. "For safety did I keep her here, with her father. Now is she gone, and with her is gone Ah-mo, my daughter, and my right hand. To recover them, and to avenge this death, I might command the Ottawa nation to follow me, and they would obey. I might destroy the Ojibwas from the face of the earth, but it may not be. In a private quarrel I may not array tribe against tribe. Nor in this case would the strength of a war-party prove of such value as the cunning of two men. The one is doubtless expected, and will be watched for, while the others may pass unnoticed. Therefore have I selected two who shall be intrusted with this mission and vengeance. They are my two sons, one of whom is of the Totem of the Bear, and the other of the Totem of the Beaver, so that two totems shall be matched against one, for Mahng is of the Totem of the Wolf. One of them is, besides, of the order of Metai, on which Mahng has no claim."

"But am I not to be allowed to take part in the rescue of my own sister? Am I to be kept here, a miserable captive, while others do the work that is rightly mine?" cried Donald.

"My son," replied Pontiac, again laying his hand gently on the young man's shoulder, "art thou not of the order of the Metai, and of my totem, the Totem of the Bear? Hast thou not been the son of my heart from the day thy baby arms clasped my neck and saved me from death? I had no thought but that thou should go as one of my messengers, and Atoka shall go with thee."

So it was planned in that chamber of death. After a while four venerable warriors, all of the Metai, were summoned; Atoka, who had as yet performed no deed to entitle him to membership, was sent outside to guard the door; and, in the presence of his dead father, Donald Hester was initiated into the dread secrets of the magic circle. It was a solemn and trying ordeal, and his face was very pale when it was ended; but his mouth was firm-set and he seemed to have gained in manliness of bearing.

A few hours later the body of Major Hester, wrapped in the flag he had served so faithfully, was laid to rest in the presence of a thousand Indians, whose friend he had ever been, and over his grave a file of Ottawa warriors fired the echoing volley that betokened their respect for his rank.

Then was Donald led away to Pontiac's own lodge, where, in pursuance of the plan already formed, his entire body was stained a rich coppery brown and he was, in other ways, carefully disguised as an Ottawa warrior. It was given out that Atoka was to be sent as a runner to announce Pontiac's recent victory to distant tribes and to solicit their aid in carrying on the war. It was also whispered that he was to be accompanied by a member of the Metai, who should proclaim the dread curse of the magic circle against Mahng, the Ojibwa, and all who should give him aid. As the proceedings of this mysterious order were always conducted in secret, no one was surprised that the identity of its messenger was not disclosed, nor that his departure should be made at night unseen of all men save only Pontiac, chief of the Metai.

So greatly did Mahng dread the wrath of Pontiac, that from the first he took every precaution to conceal the traces of his flight. Thus Donald was obliged to set forth on this renewed search for his lost sister without an idea of what course to pursue. He only knew that the country of the Ojibwas lay to the north, and so in this direction were his steps first directed.

For many weeks did he and Atoka travel by land and over the waters of the Great Lakes, down swift rushing streams, along dim trails and through weary leagues of pathless forest, where they were only guided by that instinct of woodcraft which, in an Indian, ranks with the keenest of his senses. To Saginaw and Thunder Bay they went, to Michilimackinac and L'abre Croche, even to the far northern Sault of Ste. Marie, without finding those whom they sought. In every Indian village and camp, in every forest lodge, and to the lone hunter, whenever they crossed his trail, did they proclaim the dread message of the Metai by which Mahng, the Ojibwa, was outcast forever.

The uninitiated listened with fear and trembling; but everywhere they found brave warriors and stately chiefs, who gave the answer of the magic circle:—

"He is cursed. Let him be cursed," and did everything possible to speed their errand.

In all this time they found no sign, nor until they began to retrace their steps did they gain tidings of their quest. Now, here and there, they began to come across trembling wretches who had been with Mahng on that fatal night, but whom the terrible, far-reaching curse had since driven terror-stricken from him. Of these they learned that he had, from the first, made his way to the south to the country of the Shawnees, who had at first received him kindly. Then, as the dread sentence of the Metai reached those remoter parts, he was driven from camp to camp until there was none who dared give him shelter or aid. So he turned to the far west with a purpose of joining the fierce Dacotahs beyond the great river.

Following this faint clue, Donald and Atoka crossed Lake Michigan, ascended Green bay and the swift waters of the Fox until they could portage into the wide torrent of the Wisconsin. This they purposed to descend to the Mississippi, on whose banks they hoped for further news.

One day in the late autumn they came to a place where they must needs carry around a great fall, the roar of whose plunging waters could be heard for miles through the silent forest. From their landing Donald entered the narrow trail of the carry first, bearing the canoe on his head and shoulders, while Atoka followed after a slight delay, with their rifles and scanty camp equipage. At the highest point of the carry the pathway, barely wide enough for the passage of two persons, skirted the very brink of the awful precipice over which thundered the cataract.

Here Donald came suddenly face to face with a slight figure, bending beneath a burden, whom he instantly recognized as Ah-mo, the daughter of Pontiac. At the same moment a man emerged from behind a point of rock a few paces beyond her, whom Donald knew by instinct to be Mahng. Hurling his burden from him, careless of its fate, and shouting the anathema of the Metai, the avenger sprang past the crouching girl to grapple with his mortal foe. But the latter did not await him. With the terrible words he had so long dreaded to hear ringing in his ears, he turned to fly, slipped on the wet rocks, clutched wildly at the empty air, and pitched headlong into the awful depths of the seething caldron a hundred feet below.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

A WINTER IN THE WILDERNESS

For a moment Donald stood rooted to the spot by the suddenness and awfulness of the fate that had overtaken his enemy. Then like a flash it came to him that, even while his attention was wholly centred on the tragedy just enacted, he had been aware of another man ascending the pathway who had turned and fled. Was he then to be robbed of the fruits of his arduous journeyings? Was Edith again to be snatched from him when almost within his reach? No, not if he, alone and unarmed, were forced to battle for her with a score of Mahng's treacherous followers. So thinking, he sprang down the steep trail with a reckless disregard of everything save the necessity of gaining its further end with all possible speed.

Less than a minute had elapsed since he first caught sight of Mahng. In two more he reached the end of the trail beside a pool of dark water only to find the place untenanted. Out in the river, still within rifle-shot, but speeding down stream as though in deadly fear, was a single canoe in which were three persons. Donald felt certain that two of these were females. Of course one was Edith, and though yet within sight, she was as hopelessly removed from him as though they were separated by leagues instead of rods. His own canoe had gone over the precipice, there was no trail through the dense forest growth that overhung the river bank, and if there were he could hardly have kept pace with that fleeting shadow out in the swift current. Yes, Edith was again lost to him, and as the now distant canoe rounded a bend and vanished from his sight, the young man threw himself on the ground, overcome by a dumb despair.

From this state he was roused by the sound of footsteps, and of a soft voice saying, "Donald Hester." He sprang to his feet to find Ah-mo and Atoka standing before him. The former was thin and worn as though with weariness and anxiety, and, though her face was now lighted by the radiance of a transition from despair to a new hope, much of its former beauty was wanting. She was holding out a hand and saying:—

"Donald Hester, I did not know who you were until Atoka came and told me. But I did know that you saved my life, for so great was my misery and despair that in another minute I should have ended both by an act that I now shudder to recall. So I thank you, Donald Hester, who art now become my brother, since Pontiac claims you for a son."

"I did nothing worthy of thanks, Ah-mo, my sister," answered Donald, bitterly, "and now that Edith is again lost to me, I feel that I have done worse than nothing. But tell me of her. Is she well? and what treatment does she receive at the hands of Mahng's ruffians?"

"I know not," replied Ah-mo, sadly, "for it is now many weeks since we were cruelly separated, and whither she was taken I have no knowledge."

"What?" cried Donald, "was she not with you on this very spot but a few minutes since? and did I not see her borne despairingly away in a canoe that is but just lost to sight?"

"No, there was none with me save Mahng and his brother and their wives. We have travelled long and wearily since Edith was torn from my arms, and of her fate I know nothing. I was being taken to the north that I might marry Suggema, the son of Mahng, who believed that my father would thus be compelled to withdraw his curse."

"And did you wish for this marriage?" asked Donald, curiously.

"Did I not say that I was on the point of throwing myself from yonder cliff to escape the misery of such a thing?"

"Forgive me, my sister," said the young man, humbly. "I had no cause to doubt you, nor do I. It was a thoughtless question."

With their mission thus partly fulfilled, Donald and Atoka were confronted by the serious problem of what move to make next. The season was nearing winter. In a short time the streams would be frozen, and the forest trails choked with snow. They had no canoe and it was too late in the year to peel bark with which to construct one. Their supply of food was scanty, and very soon the game on which they were wholly dependent would disappear from that part of the country. Then, too, Ah-mo's strength was so nearly spent that she was in no condition for rough travel, even had they the means to go and a knowledge of what direction to take. So, after a long discussion, it was reluctantly decided that they must remain where they were until the coming of spring with its flowing sap should enable them to build another canoe, and resume their search for Donald's sister.

The succeeding weeks were filled with busy and arduous toil. A winter in that latitude, where the mercury often falls to 20 degrees and even 30 degrees below zero, can only be successfully encountered after elaborate preparation, and the little company who now found themselves stranded on the verge of that vast northern forest, had everything to do, with but slight means and scanty time. The followers of Mahng had abandoned many things in their hasty flight which now proved of the utmost value, and a welcome addition to the limited outfit of Donald and Atoka. Among these things were several blankets, an axe, and a few rude cooking-utensils.

These they removed to the spot selected for their winter home, about a mile from the river on the bank of a small stream that flowed into it and near by a pond formed by an old and very large beaver dam. Here, before night of that first day, a snug hut of bark was erected for Ah-mo's accommodation, and from here the young men set forth the next morning on the busiest season of hunting and trapping in which either of them had ever engaged. Everything that wore fur or feathers and could furnish meat to be smoked or dried for future use was eagerly sought. Their success was phenomenal. Deer, bear, turkeys, and geese fell before their rifles, while their traps, in the construction of which Atoka was a past-master, yielded beaver, otter, muskrat, and raccoons.

Within a month they had collected such a quantity of meat and skins as assured them against both hunger and cold between then and spring. Now they turned their attention to a house, and, with only their ready axes for tools, they had one finished two weeks later that they surveyed with genuine pleasure and pardonable pride. It was of logs, notched and fitted together at the corners, twelve feet square and with walls six feet high. It was chinked with moss, had a tight floor of hewed cedar planks, a roof of hemlock bark, a chimney and fireplace of stones cemented with blue clay and sand, two small windows covered with scraped and tightly stretched intestines taken from a deer, and a stout door hung on wooden hinges.

The hut was hardly ready for occupancy before the winter storms set in and the whole forest world was buried in snow. Still the inmates of "Castle Beaver," as Donald named their cosy dwelling, were by no means idle nor did an hour of time hang heavily on their hands for lack of occupation. Ah-mo had gathered an immense supply of flags and sedge grass, from which she not only braided enough of the matting, so commonly used among the northern tribes, to enclose her own corner of the hut, but to cover all the interior walls as well. The floor was warmly spread with skins, from which their couches were also formed.

Besides always adding to the comforts of their home, they found plenty of indoor work in the way of cutting out buckskin and fur garments which were sewed with deer sinew, the making of snowshoes and wooden bowls, and the braiding of mats. For recreation Donald told tales of the great world beyond the sea, Ah-mo related incidents of her life in Montreal, and Atoka recalled many a weird Indian legend. They also played simple games. Atoka was taught to read and write from copies set by Donald, while all three improved their knowledge of English, French, and several Indian dialects. For outside work there were traps to be visited, snow to be cleared from the path leading to the river, the water hole through the ice to be chopped out every day, water to be fetched, wood to be cut for the roaring fireplace, fish to be caught through the ice in the pond, and an occasional hunt to be taken after fresh meat.

In all this busy life Ah-mo, who had fully recovered her strength and beauty, was ever the leading spirit. At the same time she was so modest and intelligent, so cheerful and uncomplaining, that Donald regarded her with ever-increasing respect and admiration.

"If Edith were only with us," he would sigh, "I think I should be content to dwell here for the rest of my life," whereat Ah-mo would laugh and bid him be cautious how he made such rash statements. Never a day passed but what they talked of Edith and planned their search for her. Donald, too, often spoke of his dear friend Christie, who, he declared, was the one white man of his acquaintance with whom he would be willing to share this pleasant forest life.

At length the winter came to an end. The south winds began to blow, the snow to melt, the ice to break up, the wild geese to fly northward in V-shaped companies, and the sap to run in the trees. While the snow was still on the ground, they gathered sap from the rock maples and boiled it into a plentiful supply of sugar. After that came the building of a canoe and the fashioning of its paddles.

It was with high hopes, but at the same time with genuine regret, that, late in May, they bade farewell to their winter home, launched a canoe, deep-laden with their accumulated stock of furs, and started southward on the swift waters of the Wisconsin. For weeks they floated with its current, and on the mighty volume of the Mississippi. At the newly established trading-post of St. Louis they exchanged their furs for ammunition and such goods as they needed, but at such extortionate rates as made Donald's blood boil with anger.

Here, for the first time in many months, they met white men, but none of these suspected for a moment that Donald was aught but the Indian he appeared, nor did he undeceive them, and after a short stay their journey was resumed. It was still southward to the Ohio, then up that river and the Wabash to the place where Ah-mo and Edith had been separated. Here, with all their efforts, they could only learn that the white girl had been taken to the eastward into the country of the Delawares. So they patiently retraced their course down the winding Wabash, and then continued their way up the Ohio to the Scioto and the Muskingum, stopping to make inquiries at every Indian camp and village through all that vast territory. Sometimes they seemed to find a clue, but it was always quickly lost, and toward the end of the summer they were well-nigh despairing. Only Ah-mo remained cheerfully hopeful and ever urged the others to fresh efforts.

At length, in September, they learned the startling news that a great English army was descending the Ohio from Fort Pitt, and that its commander, Colonel Bouquet, had summoned all the Indians of that region to meet him on the Muskingum. There they were to deliver to him every white captive whom they held and sign a treaty of peace, or else he would ravage their country with fire and bullet. From the moment he heard of this Donald determined to attend that great gathering, and his companions willingly consented to accompany him.



CHAPTER XXXIX

AN ADOPTED DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

So forgetful had the people of Pennsylvania become of the example of their great founder that they systematically robbed, cheated, and murdered the unfortunate Indians with whom they had dealings, until, fired by the eloquence of Pontiac, these rose in rebellion and began a fierce war of revenge. Now the panic-stricken traders and frontier settlers, who were directly responsible for this state of affairs, demanded that a bounty be offered for Indian scalps. By their clamor they at length forced the English governor of the colony to yield to their demands and sign the infamous bill. It provided that a reward averaging one hundred dollars be paid for the scalp of every Indian, man, woman, or child, killed within the limits of the province. Upon the issuing of this proclamation, to quote a leading historian, "an era of carnage ensued, during which the worst acts of Indian ferocity were thrown into the shade by the enormities of white barbarians."

Dwelling in a Shawnee village at this time was an English soldier named David Owens, who had deserted from Braddock's army ten years before and joined the Indians. He had been kindly received, adopted into the tribe, had married the daughter of a chief, and become the father of two children. With the prospect of gaining a reward for Indian scalps, all the cupidity of this man's fiendish nature was aroused, and on the approach of Bouquet's army he conceived a plan for enriching himself and at the same time escaping the punishment due him as a deserter. While meditating it he found himself encamped one night with two warriors, his own wife, another woman, and his two children. Toward morning he arose, and seeing by the dim light of the camp-fire that the others were buried in profound sleep, he placed two rifles so that their muzzles were close to the heads of the unconscious warriors and pulled both triggers at the same instant. Then, with hatchet and knife, he deliberately despatched the women and children, who cowered about him in helpless terror. With the horrible evidences of his crime dangling from his belt he then set forth for the nearest English outpost. Here he was not only paid for his scalps, but pardoned for his desertion and given a commission as interpreter in Bouquet's army.

So infuriated were the inmates of the village to which the victims of this outrage belonged, that, in retaliation, they determined to put to death six white captives who happened to be in their power. These were to be tortured on so many successive days. Five of them suffered their dreadful fate before the eyes of the sixth, and, at length, it came his turn to be led to the stake. He was a stalwart, handsome fellow, who had been held as a slave for more than a year. He had refused several offers of adoption, preferring to retain the privilege of effecting an escape, if he could, to pledging his loyalty to the tribe. So, as a slave, he had been made to toil early and late for his savage masters. Now, having fruitlessly exhausted every means of escape, as well as his powers of pleading for his own life, he determined to meet his fate as bravely as became a British soldier. With a rope about his neck, and a face betraying no trace of the horror and despair that filled his soul, he walked calmly through the jeering throng of spectators to the fatal stake.

The rope was already made fast to it, and the signal for the first act of the dreadful drama was about to be given, when a fair-haired girl, mounted on a pony, dashed through the crowd, scattering it to right and left. She severed the rope that bound the motionless captive to the tree of death, and then, wheeling about, delivered, with flashing eyes and bitter tongue, a harangue in the Indian language that caused her hearers to hang their heads in shame. She termed them cowards for visiting their vengeance on innocent and helpless captives, and fearlessly bade them begone from her sight, ere she called down the wrath of the Great Spirit on their heads.

As the abashed savages slunk away before the sting of her burning words, the girl, trembling with excitement, slid from her pony's back to the ground. Instantly the strong arm of him whom she had rescued was offered for her support, and she was electrified by the sound of her own name, which she had not heard for many months.

"I thank you, Edith Hester, for my life," said the young man, simply.

For a moment she stared at him bewildered. Then, with a flash of recognition, she answered:—

"And I thank God that he has granted me the privilege of saving it, James Christie."

When Edith was borne away captive by Mahng, the Ojibwa, he maliciously told her of her father's death and that her brother had also been killed by Pontiac's express order. Having burdened himself with this prisoner, on the impulse of the moment, Mahng was soon embarrassed as to how he should dispose of her. He dared not kill her, for he contemplated seeking an alliance with the English. At the same time, she proved a decided encumbrance on his rapid journeyings. Thus when he discovered that the wife of Custaloga, a Shawnee chief, who had recently lost her only daughter, was willing to adopt Edith in her place, he gladly relinquished his fair prisoner.

Custaloga and his wife and his sons were so proud of the beautiful white girl, whom they now claimed as daughter and sister, and treated her with such unvarying kindness that before long she became really attached to them. As she reflected that with her own father and brother dead, her former life had no longer a claim on her, she grew reconciled to that of the forest, and determined to make the best of her situation. So she devoted herself to learning the language of her new people, and before long, by her fearlessness and strength of character, coupled with many acts of kindness, gained a decided influence over them.

She was always a friend of the white captives among the Shawnees and succeeded in lightening many of their burdens. At length, while on a journey with her adopted mother and youngest brother, she heard of the terrible tragedy even then being enacted in a Shawnee village only a few miles from where they were encamped. Fired with horror and pity, she impulsively sprang on her pony and dashed away in the direction of the village, which she reached just in time to save the life of James Christie.

Ere she left the village, she obtained a pledge from the warriors of that band that his life should not again be endangered at their hands, and that in the future he should be well treated. Then, promising to see him again when they should come back that way, Edith bade the young soldier farewell and returned to the lodge that was now her home. From that moment she was conscious of a change in her feelings, and of a longing for the life of her own people which was already beginning to seem strange and remote.

It so happened that Edith and Christie did not meet again until at the great gathering of the Ohio valley Indians and their captives, held on the banks of the beautiful Muskingum by order of Colonel Bouquet. Edith was brought in first, and though she protested that she had no desire to leave her adopted parents, she was so warmly welcomed by the commander and his officers, many of whom had known both her father and brother, that she gradually allowed herself to be persuaded to a renewed trial of civilization. So strange seemed the dress with which she was provided by the matrons, who accompanied the expedition for the express purpose of caring for the female captives, that for days she would only consent to wear it for an hour or so at a time.

All this while there was daily witnessed in Bouquet's camp some of the most pathetic scenes of that strange war, the bringing in of hundreds of captives of both sexes and all ages, and the eager search among them of husbands, brothers, or sons for lost relatives. Many of those thus brought in had been born among the Indians or had lived with them for so long as to forget their own people. These clung piteously to their savage friends, begging that they might not be separated from them, and a number of these afterward effected an escape from the soldiers, in order to return to their beloved forest homes.

As group after group came in, Edith Hester scanned them eagerly in search of a familiar face. At length she saw it, and her eyes lighted with pleasure as she and Christie again met. He was escorted by two venerable warriors, one of whom was the father of the woman whose white husband had slain her for her scalp. While Edith and Christie were eagerly talking, this Indian standing quietly near them suddenly uttered an exclamation of rage, raised his rifle and fired at a white man who was passing. It was the miscreant, David Owens; and as he fell dead the whole camp was instantly in an uproar. The unresisting avenger would have been killed on the spot but for the determined protection of Edith and Christie. As it was, he was placed under arrest and held for trial on the following day.

At this trial, after Christie's testimony and that of several Indians had been taken, Edith Hester delivered such a passionate and convincing plea in behalf of the venerable warrior who had thus avenged the foul murder of his daughter and grandchildren that, to the gratification of the entire assembly, Bouquet ordered him to be acquitted and set free.

With the happy ending of this trial, while Edith was surrounded by a group of officers and receiving their congratulations, a young Indian forced his way through the circle, gave one searching look at the girl's face, and with an almost inarticulate cry of "Edith!" threw his arms about her in a joyful embrace. The scandalized officers were about to lay violent hands on the young savage, when to their amazement, they saw that her arms were about his neck, and that with her fair head on his shoulder she was sobbing hysterically.

In another moment Christie had seized one of his hands and was proclaiming the astounding news that the young Indian was none other than Donald Hester, ensign in His Majesty's regiment of Royal Americans, and long since reported dead.

For nearly half an hour the excited group exchanged an uninterrupted stream of questions and congratulations, mingled with laughter and tears. Then it began to move slowly in the direction of headquarters.

All this time there had been standing a short distance away an Indian youth, and an Indian maiden whose beauty attracted much attention and many outspoken remarks from the soldiers who sauntered past with rude stares and ruder laughter. The girl flushed, glanced about her indignantly, and finally as Edith and Donald began to move away, said in a low tone to her companion:—

"Let us go. They have no thought for us. We are no longer wanted."

So they disappeared; and when, a little later, Donald came back in eager search for Ah-mo and Atoka, they were nowhere to be found nor could he gain any information concerning them.



CHAPTER XL

THE PRINCESS ANSWERS DONALD'S QUESTION

While the army of Bouquet was operating in the south and reducing to submission the tribes of the Ohio valley, another force under command of Colonel Bradstreet, skirted the southern shore of Lake Erie, destroying Indian villages wherever they were found and finally reached Fort Detroit. Thus was the long siege of that frontier post raised, and after fifteen months of close confinement within its palisades the weary garrison were once more free to venture forth, without the risk of being ambushed by an ever vigilant foe. Treaties were signed with all the chiefs of that region, save only Pontiac, who, filled with bitter grief at the failure of the great project to which he had devoted the energies of his life, sullenly retired to his forest stronghold on the Maumee. From there he gave out, that if by spring he had not raised a sufficient force to renew his struggle against the hated redcoats, then would he visit Sir William Johnson, whom alone he recognized as representing the English king, and sign a treaty.

So it happened that the great chief, accompanied by such a retinue as became his rank, presented himself before the walls of Fort Oswego early in the following June and was saluted by a salvo of artillery. Sir William had journeyed that far to meet him, and here the treaty was signed by which Pontiac bound himself to fight no more against the English. After the formalities were concluded, the Ottawa chieftain remained in that vicinity for several weeks as the guest of the governor.

About this time the Bullens reached New York from a flying trip to Oswego, where the paymaster had been summoned on business. Madam Bullen, whom we have long known as Madam Rothsay, always accompanied her husband on such journeys. She declared that both he and "Tummas," who had long since been reluctantly surrendered by the Indians, were so incapable of caring for themselves in the wilderness, that her presence was absolutely necessary to protect them from its dangers.

To this the little paymaster answered that the wilderness had no dangers save such as could be overcome by a man of brains and ingenuity, but that he was always glad to have Madam Bullen accompany him on his trips, and thereby escape, for a while, the perilous cares and anxieties of city life.

From this Oswego trip, which had to do with providing a great quantity of presents for Pontiac and his followers, they returned to their spacious town house on the Bowling Green in time to give a grand ball on the eve of Edith Hester's wedding to Lieutenant James Christie.

Donald was in town, of course, and would appear in uniform for the last time at this ball, as he had resigned from the army in order to devote his whole attention to the great estate left by his father.

"When I rebuild Tawtry House, I shall want you and Edith to come and live with me," he said to Christie, "for without you the loneliness will be horrible."

"I'm afraid you'll have to bear it, old man, for I'm not inclined to give up soldiering yet awhile, and especially so soon after promotion," replied the lieutenant, with a laugh. "But you can easily banish loneliness by installing a mistress in Tawtry House. I'm sure there are plenty of pretty girls in New York who would fill the position charmingly."

"Perhaps there are," answered Donald, indifferently. "I must confess, though, that I have yet to meet one of them whom I could fancy presiding gracefully over the hospitalities of a forest castle."

In truth Donald had not enjoyed his season of New York life, and was ever drawing unfavorable comparisons between it and his previous winter spent so happily in a wilderness hut, amid the mighty forests of the distant Wisconsin. He rarely alluded to those days now, but in his heart of hearts he fondly cherished their memories.

Had the ball given by the Bullens been in honor of any person save his own dear sister, Donald would have excused himself from attendance, so weary was he of such festivities. As it was, he dropped in very late, when the dancing was at its height, and stood for a while listlessly watching the gay scene from one of the entrances to the ball-room. Suddenly he started and leaned eagerly forward. A girl with the bearing of a princess had just swept past him, leaning on the arm of General Gage, commander-in-chief of His Majesty's forces in America. She was robed in corn-colored silk and wore a string of great pearls twined in the jetty braids of her hair. As her dress brushed Donald, he seemed to feel the breath of the forest on his cheek.

"Who is she?" he asked of a young officer standing beside him.

"Who? Oh! The girl the general is so taken with? The belle of the evening? The sensation of the hour? Surely you don't need to be told who she is?"

"But I do," replied Donald, impatiently; "for I have only just come."

"Ah! Well then, she is—To tell you the truth, I don't know exactly who she is, except that she is an Indian princess from the far west, and some say that she is the daughter of Pontiac himself. But she was educated in France, and all that sort of thing, you know. They say she is worth—" Here the speaker paused, for his listener had departed.

Shortly afterwards, Donald Hester was the most envied man in the room; for the beauty of the ball was leaning on his arm, smiling up in his face and talking to him with all the familiarity of old acquaintanceship.

"Lucky dog, that Hester!" remarked one dapper youth to another.

"Yes. They say she once saved him from the stake or something of the kind, and that he has her monogram tattooed on his arm, don't you know? Romantic, awfully."

Out on a broad veranda, from which they could see a flood of moon silver flecking the waters of the bay, Donald was asking Ah-mo many questions. How did she happen to be there? Where had she come from? Why had he not known of her arrival sooner? Did she know that Edith was to be married? Why had she left them so mysteriously and unkindly on the Muskingum the year before?

To these the girl made answer that she had come from Oswego with her kind friend, Madam Bullen, to be bridesmaid at the wedding of her dear friend, Edith Hester.

"So that is Edith's mystery!" cried Donald, who had tried in vain to find out who was to act in that capacity on the morrow.

"Possibly," assented Ah-mo, with the dear rippling laugh that had haunted the young ensign ever since he first heard it on the far-away Detroit. "And now, Mr. Hester, that—"

"Mister Hester? It was not Mister Hester on the banks of the Wisconsin, Ah-mo."

"But that was a year and more ago. Besides, you were not in uniform, then. Do you know I don't think I like you in a red coat, half so well as in buckskin?"

"If it were possible I would discard it this moment," cried Donald, "and I promise you, that after this night, I will never wear it again. But, speaking of dress, Ah-mo, while you are beautiful beyond description in this silken robe, I can't but think that you were still more so in the fawn skin and fur dress that Atoka and I helped you make in Beaver Castle."

So they talked of what had been and what was to be, and of Donald's plans for Tawtry House, until suddenly he said:—

"And now, Ah-mo, I want to ask you the most important question of all. Will you—I mean, can you—"

"Come in to supper," interrupted Paymaster Bullen, bustling out on the veranda at that moment. "Who is it? You, Donald, and you, Ah-mo, my dear girl? Why, there won't be a bite left, if you don't hurry. Never saw such feeders in my life. 'Pon honor, I never did."

"And I didn't have a chance to ask my question," whispered Donald, disconsolately.

"Perhaps you will have a better chance the next time we meet," replied Ah-mo, mischievously.

On the following day came the wedding, with the genuine sensation of an Indian princess as bridesmaid, and opinion was evenly divided as to which was the loveliest,—she, or the bride herself.

On the day after, when Donald called at the Bullens', with his question trembling on his lips, he was astounded and bewildered to learn that Ah-mo had left the evening before on a swift-sailing sloop for Albany. From there she would hasten to Oswego and rejoin her father, who only awaited her coming to start for his distant western home.

"But, sir," said "Tummas," who in all the glory of a gorgeous new livery, had just opened the door, "the young lady left a note for you, hand 'ere it is."

Hastily tearing open the dainty billet thus handed him, Donald read:—

"If your question concerns the belle of a New York ball-room, it had best remain unasked. If it is intended for a simple Indian girl, it had best be asked among the lodges of her people."

A month later the question was asked, and answered very much to Donald's satisfaction; while he, clad in buckskin, and Ah-mo dressed as were the other girls of her tribe, drifted in a canoe on the placid surface of the Detroit river. They were married in the quaint little chapel of the fort, and, as Pontiac gave his beautiful daughter into the arms of him, who was now become doubly his son, he said:—

"May the Great Spirit, the All-seeing Eye of the Magic Circle, who looks alike upon his red children of the forest, and his white children from beyond the salt waters, forever bless this union of the Totem of the Beaver with the Totem of the Bear."



THE END.