“But, tell me,” she ventured, “what it is that causes this commotion among your people?” “The White Bird can not know,” he returned, sternly. “Make her young heart heavy.” The poor captive sunk down upon her bed of skins, and the savage left the apartment to gaze on the spectacle without. As soon as he was gone, the tumult without seemed to increase, as did, also, the anxiety of Emily. She examined the wall over her couch, and, finding a small aperture, she soon succeeded in enlarging it, so as to afford quite a view. Men, women and children soon appeared, in one brawling, yelling mass, gathered around an object of common interest in the centre. Just as they were opposite her prison-house, an opening in the throng revealed to her anxious gaze the cause of all the excitement. It was a white prisoner—his arms pinioned behind him, and guarded by savage braves. Women and children pressed around him, hooting, taunting and belabouring him with fists and clubs. Surely, she knew that tall form—those handsome features, and backwoods garb! It was, indeed, Alfred Markley, who stood thus in the midst of cruel captors. Her head swam, while a thousand questions and conjectures rushed through her brain. Where was the brother of the prisoner? Was he also a captive? She could no longer think that he was dead. A long scene of commotion ensued without, which Emily dared not attempt to witness. At length it ceased, and, with yells of triumph, the throng moved away. Shortly afterward, Sally Simms entered the apartment. The maiden felt sure this person could enlighten her, if she would, so she remarked as unconcernedly as possible: “I heard quite a commotion without, but could not learn the cause.” “Yas,” was the answer, “the Injins has got a white prisoner, and was puttin’ him through the exercises. He’s a smart-lookin’ young chap, and should known better’n to come so near Billy Ashbey’s place. His scouts are a deal too smart for white hunters.” “Was the prisoner taken near this place?” Emily questioned, her interest becoming still greater. “Not fur away, I should tek’ it!” was the reply. “A party set out tew jine the people acrost the river, an’, in about tew hours, cum’ back with this chap. I’m kind o’ sorry fer him; but he orter l’arn wisdom, an’ I guess he will when he gits out o’ this.” “But how came he to be so near? What was he doing on this side of the river?” Emily asked, her suspense overcoming all other feelings. The woman noticed the anxiety of the maiden, and all communicativeness was at an end. “I don’t know,” she replied, abruptly. “I believe he had one or two companions, what got shot; but that’s all I knows. Breakfast’s ready.” Poor Emily! She wished for nothing to eat; so, merely saying that she desired none, she was left alone with all her fearful doubts and surmises. She knew not that Sally had fabricated the last portion of her story, merely to add to the poor captive’s sufferings! CHAPTER IX. A TASTE OF THE STICKS.