"Andre Helmuth," she cried, "I have lost the child, Jeanne. Give an alarm." Then she sank down half senseless. Dame Helmuth ran out from the fish she was cooking for supper. "What is it?" she cried. "And who is this?" pointing to the prostrate figure. "Jeanne Angelot's Pani. And Jeanne, she says, is lost. It must be in the woods. But she knows them so well." "She was ever a wild thing," declared the dame. "But a night in the woods alone is not such a pleasant pastime, with panthers, and bears have been seen. And there may be savages prowling about. Yes, Andre, give the alarm and I will look after the poor creature. She has always been faithful to the child." By the time the dame had restored her, the news had spread. It reached Wenonah presently, who hastened to the Helmuths'. Pani sat bewildered, and the Indian woman, by skillful questioning, finally drew the story from her. "I think it is a band of roving Indians," she said. "I am glad now that Paspah is at home. He is a good guide. But we must send in town and get a company." "Yes, yes, that is the thing to do. A few soldiers with arms. One cannot tell how many of the Indians there may be. I will go at once," and Andre Helmuth set off on a clumsy trot. "And the savory fish that he is so fond of, getting spoiled. But what is that to the child's danger? Children, come and have your suppers." They wanted to linger about Pani, but the throng kept increasing. Wenonah warded off troublesome questions and detailed the story to newcomers. The dame brought her a cup of tea with a little brandy in it, and then waited what seemed an interminable while. The alarm spread through the garrison, and a searching party was ordered out equipped with lanterns and well armed. At its head was Jeanne's admirer, the young lieutenant. Tony Helmuth had finished his supper. "Let me go with them," he pleaded. "I know every inch of the way. I have been up and down the creek a hundred times." Pani rose. "I must go, too," she said, weakly, but she dropped back on the seat. "Thou wilt come home with me," began Wenonah, with gentle persuasiveness. "Thou hast not the strength." She yielded passively and clung piteously to the younger woman, her feet lagging. "She was so glad and joyous all day. I should not have let her go out of my sight," the foster mother moaned. "And it was only such a little while. Heaven and the blessed Mother send her back safely." "I think they will find her. Paspah is good on a trail. If they stop for the night and build a fire that will surely betray them." She led Pani carefully along, though quite a procession followed. "Let her be quiet now," said the younger squaw. "You can hear nothing more from her, and she needs rest. Go your ways."