The low stone roof of the passage in which the trio found themselves compelled them to crawl forward, slowly groping their way like the blind. Every now and then Wacomet would halt, and the three would listen intently for several minutes, and, hearing nothing, glide forward again. Not a word was uttered by the trio, for the worn surface of the ground over which they crawled told them that the cave at the termination of the labyrinthine corridor was or had been inhabited. All at once, as Wacomet groped his way around a gigantic rock, which lay in the passage, the murmur of voices brought the Ottawa to a sudden halt. He had recognized a tone which had sent a thrill to his heart. Wacomet knew all regarding the tragedy beneath the cottonwood--he had listened to the narrative from the lips of Mitre St. Pierre, scarce six hours before, and he had wished, from the depths of his heart, that he might get possession of the girl his passions yearned to possess. Then, and the Ottawa’s heart throbbed exultingly at the thought, the trader would see her no more, until she had become his pale-faced squaw--his slave. Ah! he knew a spot along the very stream that sung its way to the Miami of the Lake, far below them, which no feet save but one other’s than his had ever pressed--a spot as difficult to find as the Holy Grail or the heart of Byron. Yes, he rejoiced in the knowledge of such a spot as this, and thither, yet that night, he would convey the owner of the dulcet tones he had first and was still listening to, while he crouched beside the loose rock. When Leather-lips and Speckled Snake reached Wacomet’s side, and before they could hear the murmurs far ahead, the young Ottawa turned suddenly upon them, and in low tones commanded them to retrace their reptatory movements. Wondering, yet not daring to seek by questions the cause the strange command, they obeyed, and when they had reached an acute angle, lately passed, Wacomet, full of plots and artifices, spoke: “Not far ahead,” he said, in the lowest of whispers, while the trio’s heads touched in the almost palpable gloom, “is the She-wolf’s den; but other animals surround her.” A grunt of surprise escaped the listeners’ lips. “While Leather-lips and Speckled Snake tarried behind, Wacomet heard the voice of a pale-face for whose scalp Blue-Jacket would give his own--Wells, the Black Snake’s big spy. And not only does he sit at the She-wolf’s fire, but with him sit the two spies for whom our braves now hunt.” The two red auditors uttered ejaculations of astonishment that told how welcome the intelligence was to them. “Then let us glide forward and spring upon the white snakes,” said Leather-lips, to whom fear was a stranger. “They watch not for the red-man to-night, and when the Black Snake crawls down the Maumee, we’ll throw their scalps into his teeth.”