After awhile a solitary figure, which she recognized as Joe Girty, approached and walked among the warriors. Then followed the drawing of the totems, and when the face of Stomah, the red artist, was revealed to the avenger, her rifle flew to her shoulder, and, before the gust of revenge left the girl, Stomah was ebbing out his life-blood, as the reader has seen, over the totems. Stomah had paid the penalty he had incurred upon a certain stormy November night, years prior to the inauguration of our romance. After the fatal shot, the avenger crept nearer the bank of the stream and noiselessly reloaded her rifle. Then gliding back she listened to the oath of the Death League, and saw its members leave the Ottawa’s lodge. She knew that she would not be followed that night, for Turkey-foot had said as much, and suddenly, while she waited for the spy’s return, Joe Girty’s whoop, indicating an important capture, rent the air. The cry seemed to have alarmed the entire village, for the lodges near her poured forth their human contents, that hurried toward the center of the “town.” With almost throbless heart, and rifle at half-cock, the disguised avenger darted forward with natural caution, and presently her worst fears were confirmed. A multitude of torches illuminated a large space, that might be termed a well-defined square, and around one man, secure in the grip of the renegade, howled fully four hundred mad representatives of six red nations. Eager to witness what would follow, and confident of the trustworthiness of her disguise, the Indian’s enemy placed her gun against a wigwam and boldly joined the assembly. In a few words Girty described the spy’s capture, and calmly Mark Morgan awaited his doom. “To the stake at once!” cried the loud voice of Wacomet, who saw in the young scout the accepted lover of the girl he admired. “At once to the tree! and we’ll send the white dog’s ashes to his master.” This was greeted with shouts of approval, which still echoed down the Maumee, when a pale-face sprung from the crowd and paused before the prisoner. It was Mitre St. Pierre! “Mark Morgan,” he shrieked, with flashing eyes, as his bony fingers closed on the spy’s throat, “where’s my gal? Tell me where she is this minute, or, by the God that created us I’ll scatter your brains over these braves.” “Ye’ve axed the chap a question which he can’t answer while you continner to choke his wind off,” said Girty, clutching the exasperated trader’s arm. “Take yer fingers away, an’ we’ll see what he sez to yer question.” Sullenly the Frenchman complied, for he saw Girty’s hand touch the ornamented hilt of a huge Spanish dirk that glistened in his girdle. “Now answer my question, white dog!” he cried, stepping a pace from the prisoner, who eyed him with something of a look of triumph mingled with defiance. “Where’s Effie--my gal!” “Where I left her, Mitre St. Pierre!”