So were they situated, and it was evening, when they were alone in their wigwam, that their ears were assailed with the most terrific yell. It reverberated through the woods like the ringing of a horn, and in another moment, Kenah and his party were rushing towards them. Netnokwa sprung forward and planted herself in the door. Miskwa and Gay crouched behind her. The Prophet's band, like a swollen torrent, came sweeping on. “Stop, madmen!” she cried, in a loud piercing voice, which appalled even the fiercest hearts, and hushed them into silence deep as that of the grave:—“Dost thou know Netnokwa? Darest thou fell the old oak of the forest, or handle roughly the loveliest flower of the prairie? Cowardly wretches! what want you here?” She ceased:—they were awed into silence, and, like dogs at bay, were kept at a distance, by Netnokwa's glance. But a moment passed, and Kenah again rushing forward, the frame of old Netnokwa yielded to his impetuosity, and entering the cabin, he was followed by his party. At first, were heard cries and shrieks, and several moments passed of distracting doubt. Then the voice of old Netnokwa was heard sounding loud above the storm within, and venting curses and imprecations on Kenah and his party. “Whence came ye? Who orders? How dare you touch Netnokwa? Netnokwa is now as withered grass,—her stream of life is almost dry,—her hair is whiter than the snow.—Who wants her? Say, blood hounds! why come ye?” “The Prophet,” cried Kenah. “May the lightning of the Great Spirit wither his heart. May his spirit never enter the happy hunting grounds of the red men,” cried Netnokwa. “He wants the last drop that flows in the veins of the old woman.” “No,” said Kenah, “the Prophet wishes to see Netnokwa. He sends for her to his camp. He will not harm her.” “Then why did he not send a runner. The message of the Prophet is heavy; six warriors must bear it. Why come ye all?” “It is the Prophet's will:”—was the brief reply. Netnokwa shook her head, for she saw too well, the fate which awaited her, and calming herself, she turned to Miskwa, who with Gay had crouched down behind her, each trembling with fear. Holding with her a hurried dialogue for a few moments, she again turned to Kenah; “What becomes of Netnokwa's daughter, the loveliest flower of the prairie?” “The Prophet wishes to see her;” was the answer. “And the captive maiden;—” she continued. “Will spread her blanket in the camp of the Prophet?” replied Kenah. Gay now wept as if her heart would break, for she regarded herself as the author of the heavy misfortune, which had come so suddenly upon them; while each moment Netnokwa and Miskwa grew more composed. “Where is Tecumseh?” inquired Netnokwa. “Tecumseh has no home,” said Kenah. “He wanders far and wide, and spreads his blanket when the sun goes down.” “Netnokwa's daughter will be the bride of Tecumseh; does he know that the Prophet wants her blood?”