“Is the Singing Bird sure that she loves another?” continued the chief. “Yes, I am sure,” said Leona, wonderingly. “The white squaw loves the young guide who looks like the red chief, and is a prisoner in the village of the Crows?” “Yes,” answered Leona, mournfully but firmly. “It is good; does the white hunter love the Singing Bird?” said the chief. “Yes, loves her as his life.” “Does the white squaw know that the young hunter will die by the hands of the Crows before the sun rises over the big river?” Leona hid her face in her hands, sobbing. “The Singing Bird says she loves the white hunter; if she loves him, will she save him from death?” Leona, through her tears, gazed in astonishment up at the stolid features of the Indian. “I save him? How?” she cried. “The white hunter’s life belongs to the ‘White Vulture.’ If the ‘White Vulture’ says ‘Go free,’ no warrior in the Crow nation will dare say ‘No.’ If the Singing Bird will promise to come and sing in the lodge of the ‘White Vulture,’ the white hunter shall return to his people.” And the Indian bent his full, dark eyes upon her as he spoke. A few moments Leona hesitated; she could save her lover’s life by sacrificing her own, for she knew full well that death would soon claim her as his own should she remain in the wilderness. Her lover had risked his life and was now to fall a sacrifice in endeavoring to save her; she could save him, and as she loved him better than she did her own life, she resolved upon her own sacrifice. “Set him free and I promise to do whatever you will.” “The Singing Bird is wise,” responded the “White Vulture,” in the same calm tone as before; no trace of feeling could be discerned upon his face. “Let the Singing Bird follow me.” Then from the Indian lodge went the “White Vulture,” and Leona followed him. The chief led the way through the village, which seemed deserted, as it really was--as all the braves, with the exception of the two who watched the lodge wherein the whites were confined, were assembled at a grand council at the upper end of the tillage. The chief, passing the lodges, reached the little thicket where the “Crow-Killer” and Dave had captured him a few hours before. “The Singing Bird will wait for the chief’s return and not stir?” questioned the “White Vulture.” “Yes,” replied Leona, now passive in her agony. “It is good--wait!” responded the chief. Then the “White Vulture” left the girl, walked back through the village and halted at the door of the lodge wherein were confined the two guides. The two braves on watch at the entrance drew off to a respectful distance as the chief entered the hut. The two hunters, by the dim light thrown from the fire, could discern who their visitor was, and they exchanged a glance of meaning as the elder looked upon his son and the younger hunter upon his brother.