Nebowie pined in anguish for the home coming, and White Wolf waited for her sorrow to pass. She spent months of misery, and finally carried her aching heart to the “Black Robe,” who ministered to the spiritual needs of her people, after the formula of his sect, in the little mission house up the river. He was a kindly counselor and listened with sympathy to her story. He belonged to that hardy and zealous band of ecclesiastics who had come into the land of another race to build new altars, and to teach what they believed to be the ways to redemption. He told Nebowie to take her sorrow to the white man’s deity and gave her a small silver crucifix as a token that would bring divine consolation and peace. Forms of penance and supplication were prescribed, and she was sent away with the blessing of the devout priest. Nebowie carried her cross and, during the still hours in the little wigwam, she held it to her anguished breast. The months brought no surcease. In the quiet ministry of the woods there crept into her heart a belief that the magic of the Black Robe’s God was futile. The inevitable atavism came and she departed into the silences. For a long time her whereabouts were unknown. During the bitter months her intuitive mind worked out the problem. Something that she found in the wilderness had solved the mystery of her loved one’s disappearance, and, when she returned, she hammered her silver crucifix into an arrow head, bound it with deer sinew to the hickory shaft of the arrow with which Little Turtle had killed the bald eagle, and meditated upon the hour of her revenge. White Wolf was doomed, and his executioner patiently bided the time for action. He renewed his visits and condoled with the sad old man, but made no progress with Nebowie, although she sometimes seemed to encourage his advances. One evening in the early fall he returned from a hunting trip over the marshes. He followed one of the small trails that skirted the woods near his village. A shadowy form moved silently among the trees. There was a low whir, and something sped through the dusk. When they found White Wolf in the morning the hair on one side of his head was matted with blood, and a small hole led into his stilled brain, but there was no clue to the motive or to the author of the tragedy. He was duly mourned and buried after the manner of his fathers. His taking off was numbered among the enigmas of the past, and was soon forgotten. Nebowie continued her home life with her father and her little one, but tranquility was in her face. She felt within her the glow that retribution brings to the savage heart—whether it be red or white. A recompense had come to her tortured soul that softened the after years. The silver of the arrow point had achieved a mission that had failed when it bore the form of a cross.