No longer would he dwell among the savages, though a sub-chief; no longer would he be called the son of one who had perhaps butchered his parents. He would that night fly the village; he would seek the advancing legions of Wayne, and avenge the kindred whom he believed to be dead. As far back as he could recollect his thoughts were associated with Joe Girty and his squaw wife, with the death-dance, war-path and forest chase. The renegade told him that his parents were dead, that he had snatched him, then a mere babe, from the hands of an Indian who was about to dash his brains out against a tree. At nine years of age, to all outward appearances, he became an Ottawa. His skin was dyed with paint, he received the feathers of a young sub-chief, and an Indian name--Kenowatha, or the White Fox. He had reached his seventeenth year now, was faultlessly formed, becoming of countenance, and instead of the black locks that crown the red-man’s head, a wealth of auburn tresses, inclined to curl, touched his shoulders. “No more will I live among those who strike against my people,” murmured Kenowatha, in a determined tone, as he walked toward the rough cabin that had sheltered him for years. “This night sees me free, and ere long Mad Anthony will see the White Fox among his spies. Oh, that I could encounter Captain Wells in the forest! I will get my rifle. Loosa is asleep--full of his rum, and he is far away. Then--” A footstep in that silent portion of the village broke his sentence, and a moment later, while he crouched upon the ground, the form of Joe Girty flitted past him. There was no mistaking the burly figure of the renegade, and the young fugitive noticed the burden that the villain bore. He saw the white face that seemingly looked at him over Girty’s shoulder. The renegade did not perceive his adopted son, though he might have touched him with his outstretched hand, and Kenowatha immediately rose and glided after him. Through a crevice in the cabin the white Indian witnessed the scene between the renegade and his wife, and resolved to free the beautiful terror of the red-men, though he lost his life in the action. For many months he had roamed the forest, hoping to meet the young She-wolf--not to send a bullet to her heart and thus rid his tribe of their pest; but to unite his life with hers--to fly to the white settlements, forgetting the wildwood and its bloody scenes. But she had successfully eluded him, though at times he had reached the bodies of her victims, while the blood still flowed from the dreaded crescent mark. But now they were to meet under truly thrilling circumstances. Kenowatha waited until Joe Girty’s steps died away toward the council-house, then he rose and entered the cabin. Loosa started up with cocked pistol; but when she saw who had entered she smiled, and pointed to Nanette Froisart, whose eyes were fixed upon the white Indian. “Why did Kenowatha leave the council?” she asked.