“We’ll meet again,” St. Pierre continued, before the spy could utter a word, “and that girl,” and he pointed to Effie, who had recovered and was clinging to her lover’s arm, “and that girl,” he repeated, “shall listen to the groans I shall wring from your heart, powerless to help you. I shall hunt you with a vindictiveness to which the work of the bitterest vendetta of the Old World can not be compared. Mark my words, Mark Morgan; take the girl and go.” As Mitre St. Pierre finished he stepped aside and waved his hand toward the slumbering river. “Come, Effie,” said the spy, taking the young girl’s hand. “If it needed but an effort for your preservation to transform that man into a fiend, then it were best that his roof shelters you no longer.” St. Pierre scowled at this, and as the spy darted past with his pale flower, the sound of quick footsteps fell upon his ears. “Mark, listen,” whispered Effie. “I hear them, girl,” he said, without pausing. “They are British soldiers who have discovered the major’s escape. They must not find me.” He sprung to the water’s edge, where he suddenly paused, and, with a startling exclamation, gazed bewilderingly around. “Where’s my boat?” The interrogative bubbled unsummoned to his lips. His canoe was gone--gone from the tufts of grass to which he had securely moored it! In his dilemma the spy turned toward the cottonwood. He saw several British soldiers and Indians gain St. Pierre’s side. “There! there!” cried the trader, excitedly, pointing to the twain relieved against the silvery surface of the Maumee. “See! see! Mark Morgan, Wayne’s accursed spy!” With hideous yells, the Indians espied the brave scout, and darted forward. A pistol flashed from Morgan’s girdle, and before the foremost savage could throw himself to the earth, he sprung into the air with a bullet in his heart. The following moment the scout sprung from the bank, and with Effie at his side was swimming toward the conical island covered with young cottonwood and poplar that lay a short distance below in mid-stream. “Don’t shoot!” shouted the trader, as his tomahawk knocked several directed guns from the Indians’ hands. “You might hit the girl, an’ she’s mine. He will land on the Cone, and there, as certain as death! we’ll bag our game.” The braves set up a shout at this, and the party on shore watched the twain in the water. The “Cone,” as the island was called, lay a short distance below the foot of the rapids, and in comparatively placid water. The scout had often visited it, and made himself acquainted with every foot of ground it contained. Its area embraced but eight acres, one-fourth of which composed a hollow, often irrigated by the Maumee. At length Morgan’s feet touched the bottom of the stream, and, holding Effie above the water, he waded to the Cone. “Safe!” ejaculated the girl, as she looked up into the eyes of her lover.