Wind Flower sat on a stone, regarding the white girl distrustfully, while the latter was appealing to her with a multiplicity of words and gestures. “We will go on together,” said Lightfoot, speaking to the Indian girl. “Why is Wind Flower here, so far from the village?” “The chief sees the bow and the arrows on my horse,” she answered. “I hunted the deer, and he came in this direction, so that I followed. Then I found the horse of the young chief, and from the top of the hill I saw the young chief and his prisoner.” “We will go on together,” he repeated. He turned his horse about and commanded Lena Forest to mount to its back. Then he walked beside the horse, leading it, while the Indian girl, assisting herself to the back of her own animal, rode at his side. Lena Forest was buoyed somewhat with hope, since meeting this Indian girl; she believed that one of her own sex, even though an Indian, would be less heartless than a Blackfoot warrior. The horses did not go fast enough to suit Lightfoot, and he dropped behind, and lashed them on with switches, running at their heels. He still was not traveling as rapidly as he desired. Fear of Long Hair lay heavily on him. “Will Wind Flower stay here with the white girl prisoner of Crazy Snake, while Lightfoot goes to the top of the hill?” he asked at length. He gave it as an order, though wording it as a question; and then began to climb the hill, leaving the two girls there on the horses. In a few moments he had disappeared from sight. Again, with pleading words, the white girl began to beg for the assistance of the Indian. A strange look was in the face of the Indian maid, and Lena Forest believed it denoted a yielding, and so her hopes rose swiftly. Wind Flower drew nearer, forcing her horse close up against that ridden by the prisoner. She stared with her black eyes into the brown orbs of the prisoner. “The paleface loves the young chief?” she said, her voice tremulous. The words were articulated queerly, but their meaning was plain. “No, no, no!” stammered Lena Forest. “That is a mistake. I do not love him--I am afraid of him. I want to go to the white people--my people. We can go now. We have the horses, and he is afoot. Let us go now. You are a woman. Help another woman who is in trouble.” The black eyes looking into hers burned with a dangerous fire. “The white girl lies!” said Wind Flower. “No, no! My father was killed, and I am a prisoner. Let me go; help me to get away.” “Would the white girl go to the white people?” “I swear it! Oh, I swear it! Help me to get away. Perhaps I can pay you in some way! Perhaps I can----” “The white girl’s tongue is crooked as the tongue of the mother of all serpents! She loves the young chief. She would take him from Wind Flower. And for that she dies!” She drew a knife and struck with sudden fury at the breast of the swaying girl before her. But her horse chanced to shift its position, and her blow fell short.