As we struggled thus, a half-dozen arrows from the bows of the braves whistled into him. The warriors, with clubs and tomahawks sprang to my rescue; a short, sharp struggle, and the huge brute toppled over me and fell. The Indians helped me to my feet, the blood spurting from the flesh wounds in my arm and shoulder, and with looks of wonder and admiration they stood about me. I had plainly risen in their estimation, for there is nothing the savage appreciates like bravery. Winona pushed through them as they stood there, a soft deerskin in her hand. I saw she had torn from her own shoulders the light robe that she wore, and now with quick commands she dispatched one brave for water, another to get some herbs from the woods, as with deft fingers she cut away the frayed cloth from the wounds. Before I could prevent her, she bent her head, and pressed her lips to the bleeding flesh. "Did not the Eagle risk his own life to save Winona?" she cried, as I remonstrated vainly with her. "Had it not been for him, Winona would now sleep with her fathers." The silent Indians stood around me; no sound or gesture did they make as they watched the girl, though their dark eyes followed her every motion. Looking up quickly as Winona finished, I caught the deep, implacable look of hate which Chawanook cast at me, and I knew that I had here a bitter and undying enemy, who would go to any length to injure me; and at the thought my heart grew heavy, for here was one more complication in the net that surrounded me. The love of Winona, with which I knew not what to do, and the hate of Chawanook, who would watch me like a hawk, would prove obstacles in the way of my escape. "Art hurt, Winona?" I asked, as she bent over me, impatiently waiting for the messengers to return. "No," she answered; "thanks to a warrior." And she cast a taunting look at Chawanook, who leaned gloomily on his club behind her. At that moment the young braves returned; one with water in my steel cap, the other with a bunch of some peculiar looking herb in his hands. With deft fingers the girl washed the wounds, binding the leaves to them. Windango, his wrinkled old face gleaming with excitement, had arrived, and was listening to the account of my rescue of Winona. As the braves finished, the old chief strode forward to where I stood, and taking my hand in his, he said: "The Eagle has saved the life of Winona. Windango will not forget; perhaps he may repay the Eagle some day." And with that, he turned and led the way in silence back to the village.