Sevier shuddered and followed the servant. His room was on the first floor and at the end of the building. It was large and comfortably furnished. The furnishings were what one would expect in the homes of the seaboard rich but with perhaps more of the Spanish mode than would be found in the North. On a shelf in the corner was a row of books, but Sevier was not overfond of books and gave them scant heed. What did arouse his interest was a wall decoration formed of hunting-knives, arranged so as to suggest the rising sun, the polished blades being the rays. In the collection were home-made weapons of sturdy strength and the more gracefully shaped pieces of European origin. The windows were open and there was nothing to prevent Sevier from stepping out on to the grass ground. After the servant had left him he remained at the window and looked across the silent, empty grounds to where Jackson was imprisoned in the cabin. How surely had the young Virginian answered to the call of love, even to entering a deadly trap. Such was the drawing-power of love for a maid. Such should be the whole-souled quality of a man’s love for his country. And where tonight were the Tonpits? Were they alive, and if so, in Red Hajason’s camp? It sickened him to think of the girl in that rough environment, her austere father powerless to protect her. If Jackson hadn’t been captured and could have known of their plight he could have rallied some riflemen—but that was as useless as wishing for last year’s sunshine. “Oh, for a few days of liberty and fifty of my riflemen!” groaned Sevier. Then came the wild, fantastic thought of calling on McGillivray and offering to go and bring the Tonpits to Little Talassee. He believed McGillivray would gladly take him at his word. He would object to the riflemen being employed but he would willingly furnish a hundred or more Creeks. However, that would be playing McGillivray’s game, Spain’s game, the devil’s game. If Jackson could get back to the Nolichucky and arouse the men—the inspiration thumped against his mind like a blow. If only Jackson could escape and run the Creek and Cherokee gantlet! The Cherokees would be on the alert to prevent Chucky Jack’s return; Chief Watts would see to that. A man must need have wings to escape the ferocious dog-pack. Still such chances were created for men to take and laugh at. There could be no doubting the young Virginian’s zeal for the business; nor his woods cunning in putting it through. Stepping to the book-shelf, Sevier tore a blank page from one of the volumes. On a table in the corner was a quill and a horn of ink; for McGillivray of the Creeks handled a quill as readily as did any of his white contemporaries and kept much writing material easily accessible. The borderer wrote a few hurried lines to Stetson, explaining his fears and exhorting the settler to raise enough men to make the raid a success.