The speaker was a man past forty years of age, with proportions denoting great strength and agility. Evidently, he had been through many rough scenes of border-life, for nearly every part of his body visible showed the marks of wounds. The most conspicuous of these was upon his face, one side of which was an entire scar. From this circumstance, he was called “Scarred Eagle” by the Indians, who had long since learned both to fear and respect him. But his face, though disfigured, was not wanting in expression. In fact, there was something of dignity in his bearing. No stranger would meet the clear gray eye, and note the bold, frank style of the man’s speech, without feeling that he was in the presence of one of nature’s noblemen, indeed. His dress was after the prevailing style of bordermen; and we note but one peculiarity. The hunting-frock was decorated on the breast by a design in bead-work representing a man in the act of silently bearing a white female prisoner from the midst of some sleeping Indians. The Indian who assisted in propelling the canoe was not so tall as his white friend, though dressed nearly like him. He was a noble-looking savage, and had learned to speak the English tongue with considerable fluency. A few words will explain the meaning of the situation in which we find these two men. Both belonged to a body of scouts hovering near the besieged garrison at Detroit. They had, in the present instance, been scouting alone on the neck of land between Erie and St. Clair lakes. Being discovered by a party of Indians, they had retreated to the lake, and embarked in the canoe which had brought them from the opposite side of the bay already mentioned. But the Indians had found a canoe and started in pursuit before our friends were half a mile away. And at the moment we have introduced them, this distance had been lessened, so that hardly fifty rods now separated them. Scarred Eagle and his Indian friend were not wanting in skill in the management of their craft. They knew the pursuers were fast gaining on them; yet they hoped to avoid a close struggle on the water, over which the gloom of night was fast settling. It was yet nearly a mile to the shore, however, and the shots which came every few seconds from their enemies, began to whizz alarmingly near. “It’s time ter pay back, Goodbrand,” said Scarred Eagle, at length. “I hate ter begin, ’cos it’ll hinder our speed an’ give them bloody rascals an advantage.” “S’pose you no do now, _have_ to bimeby,” returned the Indian. “Mebbe kill some now; den not so many to fight if come up.” “Thet’s a good plan enough, allowin’ I kin dew it, Goodbrand. But they’ll dodge down likely, jest as we do. Howsumever, I’ll try it. Ha! down with ye ag’in!” The warning was not a moment too soon; for as they dodged down into the canoe-bottom, two or three reports rung out, and this time the bullets spun directly over them. “Ay, Goodbrand; now keep ’er stidy’s ye kin, while I see what kin be done.”