“Ha! you thought me Wacomet,” he continued, in unbroken English. “Well, perhaps my dress does make me resemble that treacherous red-skin. I never thought of that when I painted up, and it’s not too late to mend. You know it wouldn’t do to have two Wacomets in the tribe at once.” Mitre St. Pierre was silent; but the hate of a lifetime flashed from his dark eyes, and his frame shook with the passion of anger. “I’m the last man you expected to meet to-night,” continued the disguised white, calmly glancing down upon Effie’s face, with a mingled expression of love and pity. “I was an unwilling spectator to the meeting but lately concluded. I watched him narrowly, and, sir, before he should have harmed this fair girl, I would have sent a bullet to his brain.” In the silence that followed, the French trader found his tongue. “Yes, you are the last devil I expected to see to-night,” he hissed, taking a step forward; “and the sooner you leave this spot the better it will be for you, Mark Morgan. Here! give me the girl--my child--and seek your mad--your crazy General!” “I am the disposer in this instance, St. Pierre,” said the scout, with unruffled temper; “and I might as well tell you first as last that, when I leave this spot, the girl, Effie, goes along. I was following my legitimate business when I came here, and, sir, your arm, clothed as I know it to be with bone and sinew, is not strong enough to hinder my departure with whatever I choose to take away.” A bitter oath parted St. Pierre’s lips. “Mark Morgan--Wayne’s accursed spy,” he hissed, “not two months since I drove you from my Post, and warned you, for your own sake, to stay away. You have disregarded that warning; now I should inflict the penalty.” The ranger laughed, and with uplifted rifle the Frenchman darted forward. Suddenly, but with gentleness, the scout permitted Effie to slide from his grasp, and St. Pierre’s rifle met a tomahawk in mid-air. The next moment, the weapon was wrenched from his grasp; he saw it describe a parabola over his head, and a dull plash told him that it had sunk in the waters of the Maumee. While his hand, shaking with the rage that filled his heart, glided to his tomahawk, his eyes looked into the muzzle of a pistol, uncomfortably near his forehead. “I do not mean to kill you, Mitre St. Pierre,” said the spy; “but when you have listened to me, you will be at liberty to return to your Post.” The trader said nothing, but continued to glare upon the young vanquisher with the ferocity of a tiger. “It is useless to tell you that I love your _protege_,” began the young man, “though perhaps the information that her hand has been promised me may be new to you.” An oath declared that the information was new to St. Pierre.