Something was struggling through the undergrowth near us; I could hear the faint sound of the bushes as someone passed through them--a stick crunched. An instant thus I lay, and listened to the faint rustling sound, and then turning over, I touched the slumbering Manteo, who lay next me, upon the shoulder. He started, and cautiously peered around at me. "What is it, my brother?" he whispered. "Listen," I answered in the same low voice, "something is approaching the camp." The sentry upon this side of the camp now raised his musketoon. "Halt!" he shouted loudly. "Halt, or I fire." And I could see him as, flint and steel in hand, he stood ready to discharge his weapon. There was a grunt from the bushes, and out of them strode a single Indian brave. Manteo sprang up from the ground and rushed forward toward him. "Do not hurt the warrior," he shouted to the astonished sentry, who stood amazed at this red man, who had come out so willingly from his concealment. The strange warrior was holding something white in his upraised hand. "'Tis for the Eagle," he grunted, and ignoring the others, he stalked forward to where I lay and held out the paper to me. Wonderingly I took the note from his hands and opened it. It was from White and ran thus: "MY DEAR SIR THOMAS: "A friendly native informs me that a week ago a great white ship cast anchor near the mainland, and from it there were put on shore two pale men and a white squaw. From the description which he gives me of them, I have no doubt that these people were Lord Dunraven, the fat priest, whom thou hast described to me, and Lady Margaret Carroll. They took the direction in which thou art now exploring, and the ship sailed away again. Perhaps thou mayest discover them, and so rescue the lady. Trusting that thou mayest do so, I remain ever, "Thy friend, "WHITE." Lifting my eyes, I looked for the Indian runner who had brought the message. "Where is the messenger?" I cried. "He is gone," said Manteo, who stood near me. "Does the Eagle wish him brought back?" and he turned as though to go in pursuit. "No," I answered, "'tis of no use. Manteo, thou wert right, 'twas the track of the beautiful one that thou didst see to-night. But how knewest thou 'twas she? Art thou gifted with magic?" and I laughed uncertainly; for in truth I did not understand how he knew that this print of a shoe was made by Margaret Carroll.