“Yes, yes, I love you, Effie St. Pierre, and I invite you to unite your fortunes with mine. I have a noble home in England. The Runnions are of noble lineage, and there, beyond the clutches of these avenging hounds, we’ll enjoy the blessings that wealth affords. Come with me. Wayne is advancing up the valley. So sure as he lives he will defeat the allied tribes, and if I am caught here then he will deliver me over to the court martial. In Canada, girl, I will be safe. I’ve strong relatives there, and from one of her ports the vessel will bear us to England. I’ll not burden time with a long love-story, now. You know that I love you, and that is enough. Each succeeding moment is precious to me now. Come, Effie, fly with me to a gorgeous home, far beyond these woods, where man proves a famished wolf to his fellow-man.” “What! unite my young life to a murderer?” cried Effie. “Never! Rudolph Runnion, and, besides, I never _loved_ you.” An oath parted the officer’s lips. “I did not come here to be baffled,” he cried. “You shall become mine: you shall, I say!” “Back!” cried the young girl, and the pistol--his gift--flashed from her bosom. The Briton came to a sudden halt. “Another step, Rudolph Runnion,” cried Effie, with determination, “and the gallant boy you slew will be avenged.” “Better death here than in yon fort,” hissed the criminal, as his hand flew forward and knocked the pistol from Effie’s grasp. “I have you, now, girl, and before I leave this accursed spot I’ll--” The whip-like crack of a rifle rent the air; the major shrieked, reeled to the water’s edge, grasped wildly at nothing, then disappeared among the waves that formed the famous rapids of the Maumee. Effie St. Pierre, stunned by the fatal bullet, staggered and fell to the ground; but scarcely had she touched the earth when a figure dropped from the branches overhead, and raised her in his arms. The figure wore the habiliments of an Ottawa chief. CHAPTER IV. THE YOUNG SHE-WOLF AND KENOWATHA. “Listen!” “Kenowatha! Kenowatha!” The call came full and clear from the Indian village. “The White Ottawa calls Kenowatha.” “He may call till he is hoarse. Kenowatha, like the dead bird to its sorrowing mate, comes not.” “There! he has ceased calling; he is hunting for Kenowatha now.” “Let him hunt.” And for many minutes the twain stood on the river’s bank, listening to the confused sounds that the night-wind bore from the Ottawa “town.” And while they--Nanette Froisart and Kenowatha--stand there, let us narrate the deeds that transpired between Joe Girty’s exit from his lodge and his return with the vengeance-hunters of the allied tribes. The first speech, delivered after the opening of the council, caused Girty’s _protege_ to turn in disgust from the assembly. He listened to that speech with the blood coursing through his veins like molten lava, and, as he turned away, he determined to carry out a project he had formed long before.