Almost instantly she arrived at these conclusions: that Mark Morgan was Wacomet the Ottawa, who, she knew, entertained a burning passion for the trader’s daughter or _protege_, as she really was, for in his disguise the young spy certainly bore a striking resemblance, especially from the girl’s standpoint of observation, to the red-skinned lover; that, intent upon possessing the girl, who had gently yet firmly repelled his advances, Wacomet had journeyed to the trading-post, and had surprised Effie and her British lover under the cottonwood; that he had captured both, and was conveying them to some point up the stream, where he might hide them from their friends and his. If such were the case, it had been policy for the young She-wolf to follow Wacomet, and by strategy wrest his prisoners from his red hands, and hideously adorn his brow with her crimson mark. But Nanette Froisart could not repel the passion that took possession of her, and the rifle cracked. When Effie St. Pierre shouted to her as she and Kenowatha descended the rocks, that her bleeding victim was no Indian--that she had dyed her hands in the blood of a friend, Nanette was horror-stricken, plunged into the stream, and arrested the crazy motions of the rudderless boat. “What! not an Indian?” cried Nanette, looking up into Effie’s pale face. “His skin is as fair as yours. He is Mark Morgan, one of Wayne’s spies.” “Impossible!” parted the avenger’s lips. “I speak the truth,” returned Effie. “See!” and she displayed white skin by washing the blood from her lover’s cheek. A cry of astonishment simultaneously parted the two mute spectators’ lips. “He is not dead!” suddenly cried Kenowatha, who had noted a twitching of the scout’s pale lips. “See! girl, your ball did not enter his head; it merely grazed it.” The speaker caught up some water in his hand, and soon displayed the truth of his assertion. A cry of joy welled from Effie’s heart, and she knelt over her lover, taking his hands. Additional water sufficed to unclose Mark Morgan’s eyes, and presently he sat up in the boat. “It was a close shave, girl,” he said, looking at the avenger, whom he now encountered for the first time. “I owe the preservation of my life to the fact that you fired downward; had I been on a level with you there were no need of my talking now.” “No,” answered the She-wolf. “I would have sworn that you were an Indian--Wacomet.” “You are not the first person who has recognized Wacomet in me within the last twenty-four hours, and I had better counterfeit another red gentleman than he. But, girl, we must seek shelter; there may be sharp eyes nearing us, and then here’s one who needs rest, to live.” As he finished, the spy glanced at the Briton, and a minute later the boat was moored to the bank.