The limestone banks were almost perpendicular, and with her fingers still entwined around Kenowatha’s hand, Nanette began the descent. A misstep would send both to a dreadful death upon the rocky bed of the shallow stream far below, and the descent was extremely dangerous, for the rays of the moon but illy penetrated the branches of the overhanging trees, to show them the way. Kenowatha trusted in the young She-wolf. He felt that she would guide him safely. The twain reached a dark aperture that led into the cliff, and Nanette uttered a cry of delight. “This is your home?” said Kenowatha, half interrogatively. “My home and my citadel,” responded the Girl Avenger, and a moment later she was leading Kenowatha through a series of gloomy, tortuous passages, in which one not accustomed to the place would be hopelessly lost. At length the girl dropped the white Indian’s hand, and presently a spark from two flints ignited a pile of bark-linings. The fire revealed the avenger’s home. The apartment proved a large and almost square room, whose walls seemed to have been hewn to an even surface, by the hands of giants. The limestone floor was devoid of rubbish, and in one corner of the room lay a couch, several old muskets, camp-kettles, etc., while above them, on strong sinews, between thirty and forty Indian scalps were strung. Kenowatha heard the bubbling of crystal waters, and tried to discover their whereabouts. “If the White Fox is athirst,” said Nanette, “let him drink from the spring that bubbles from the rocks yonder.” She pointed toward one corner of the subterranean apartment, and Kenowatha walked from the fire. “I’ll surprise the white girl now,” he muttered, as he knelt before the spring, and scooped some of the water up in his hand. Then he applied the clear liquid--strongly impregnated with lime, to his face, until he felt that the paint had yielded to the ablution. With a smile upon his lips, he turned toward Nanette, who was cooking a piece of venison over the crimson blaze. She did not notice his moccasined steps. “Girl,” he spoke, in the English tongue. She looked up and sprung to her feet. “A pale-face!” “Yes, Kenowatha is a pale-face, though for many years he has been a red Ottawa.” Nanette took his hands. “And they slew your loved ones, too?” she cried. “Yes.” “Then we unite our fortunes!” she said: “side by side we will avenge the death of our loved ones. For every hair that crowned their heads a red-skin shall fall.” “Yes, yes,” cried Kenowatha. “White girl, Kenowatha’s life has grown into yours. He will hunt the red murderers with you, and the mark that he shall make upon their brows shall become as terrible as yours. Oh, our parents shall be terribly avenged! God nerve me to the task!” and the youth’s hand was lifted heavenward. “I swear again, Kenowatha--let us swear together,” and a minute later the cave resounded with the most terrible vow that was ever taken by the enemies of the red-man.