I closed my eyes and waited for the weapon to descend. I could not think; my mind seemed only to whirl and throb in a chaos of broken thought which I could not connect. I wondered dimly whether a rough knot which I had seen upon one side of the gnarled stick would strike Winona or myself; whether the Indian would strike once or twice; whether Margaret would moan could she but know, and what she did at that moment; whether her hair still shone with the old golden splendor as of yore; whether her eyes were the same deep blue and her laugh as clear and ringing as in the old days. It seemed to me that I lay there an eternity, waiting for the blow, and still it did not descend. Would it never come? "Strike!" I shouted. "Wouldst thou wait forever?" No sound answered me, and I opened my eyes and looked up. There, a few paces from me, stood the would-be headsman, leaning upon his huge bludgeon, a sulky, frightened look upon his dark face. A voice, loud and angry, rang in my ears: "And so this is how the Cherokees treat a stranger who feasts with them, when Windango turns his back?" Turning my head I saw the old chief, tomahawk in hand, standing fierce and motionless behind me, as he looked down disdainfully at the throng of savages, who had slunk away as a whipped dog will from his master. "Speak!" he continued. "Have the Cherokees naught to say for themselves?" A chorus of voices arose. "The Eagle had struck down Chawanook. Winona had given to the pale one the blue wampum belt. Could the Cherokees stand by and see such deeds as this? Then, when they would have slain the Eagle, Winona caught Mountawk's hand, and finally threw herself upon the Eagle, to protect his life at the risk of her own." And they pointed to the girl, who, pale beneath her dusky skin, had arisen and stood with bent head near the old chief. Windango with a wave of his hand silenced them. "Leave the girl to me," he said hoarsely. "I am a man, and can deal with my own lodge. Begone!" "And what of the Eagle?" cried one, bolder than the rest. "Shall he not die?" "Is not Windango a chief?" replied the old brave. "Cannot he deal with the pale one? Out of my sight, or I shall slay some of you in my rage." A moment thus the dark throng stood, undecided. They were as some fierce wild beast, who, as he is about to feast upon his bleeding quarry, is driven from it by another stronger than himself. But the habit of obedience was strong within them. Even as they wavered, the chief put his fingers to his lips, and gave a long, quivering cry. An answer floated back from the trees, and the dark forms of the old warriors could be seen, as, weapons in hand, they hurried to the assistance of their leader.