His fierce eyes roamed around the circle, challenging one by one those who opposed him. Braxton Wyatt's own eyes dropped, and fear was in his soul. He, a renegade, an enemy to his own people could not afford to lose the favor of the Indians. Girty, also, evaded. Full of craft, it was no part of his policy to quarrel with Timmendiquas. Bird alone was disposed to accept the gage. It was intolerable that he, a colonel in the British army, should be spoken to in such a manner by an Indian. He wrinkled his ugly hare lip and said stubbornly: "The prisoner was taken in my camp, and he is mine." But Girty said low in his ear: "Let Timmendiquas have him. It is not well to alienate the Wyandots. We need them in our attack on Kentucky, and already they are dissatisfied with their heavy losses there. We can do nothing for the king without the Indians." Bird was not without suppleness. He spoke to Timmendiquas, as if he were continuing his former words: "But I give up my claim to you, White Lightning of the Wyandots. Take the prisoner and do with him as you choose." Timmendiquas smiled slightly. He understood perfectly. Braxton Wyatt retired, almost sick with rage. Timmendiquas motioned to two of his warriors who bound Henry's arms securely, though not painfully, and led him away to one of the smaller fires. Here he sat down between his guards who adjusted his torn attire, but did not annoy him, and waited while the council went on. After the glow of physical triumph had passed, Henry felt a deep depression. It seemed to him that he could never forgive himself when so much depended upon him. He had full knowledge that this expedition was marching southward, and now he could send no warning. Had he returned to his comrades with the news, they might have solved the problem by dividing their force. Two could have hurried to Kentucky ahead of Bird's army, and three might have gone to Detroit to watch what preparations were made there. He condemned himself over and over again, and it is only just to say that he did not think then of his personal danger. He thought instead of those whom he might have saved, but who now would probably fall beneath the Indian tomahawk, with no one to warn them. But he permitted none of his chagrin and grief to show in his face. He would not allow any Indian or renegade to see him in despair or in anything bordering upon it. He merely sat motionless, staring into the fire, his face without expression. Henry had escaped once from the Wyandots. Perhaps it was a feat that could not be repeated a second time--indeed all the chances were against it--but in spite of everything his courage came back. He had far too much strength, vitality and youth to remain in despair, and gradually new resolutions formed almost unconsciously in his mind. Under all circumstances, fate would present at least a bare chance to do what one wished, and courage gradually became confidence.