Then the lips grew still, and for several minutes the Ottawa watched the inmates of the cave, himself as motionless as a statue. Frequent companionship with the whites had made Wacomet, to a great extent, a master of the English language, and every word that fell from the lips of those whom he watched was intelligible to him. Effie St. Pierre sat on the floor of the cave, near the British major’s couch, braiding the wealth of hair which she had drawn over her shoulders. With upturned face, Rudolph Runnion was breathing into her ears the story of his twice-told passion, to which the girl was listening calmly and in silence. Still there lurked around her lips a sneer, for the tale to which she was listening; no doubt her mind flitted back to the scene beneath the cottonwood, and her narrow escape from the brutal lusts of the minion of an imbecile king who spoke. By and by Wacomet ceased to listen to the conversation which had informed him that Major Runnion’s wound was healing rapidly, and turned his dark orbs upon the beautiful girl. Yes, yes, she should be his; of her three lovers--two white, the third red--he should be successful, and unable to restrain himself longer, he crept forward. Unsuspicious of the red serpent and wolf combined that approached them, the twain remained motionless until--when Wacomet was very near the mouth of the corridor--Effie suddenly darted to her feet, and faced the intruder. Cursing in his bitter tongue, the alarm which his foot had sprung, the Ottawa darted forward with a tiger-like spring, and a moment later the cave was filled with smoke and a deafening report. A cry, half-shriek, half-groan, burst from Wacomet’s lips, and he staggered like a drunken man, then sunk upon his knees. Still clutching the smoking double-barreled pistol, Effie St. Pierre waited for the smoke to clear away that she might witness the result of her shot. She knew that it had not been without effect, for she had seen the savage sink to the stones; but yet he might not be dead--only wounded, and, like the bear, a greater terror when wounded than before. Despite his wounds the pistol-shot had forced Rudolph Runnion from his couch, and now he looked around for something with which to defend himself, for he believed that other braves had followed the stricken chief into the cave. And for him to be taken prisoner by the red-men now, was death, not at their hands, but by those of his countrymen--his comrades in arms. The smoke had not begun to clear away when a form, bleeding from a frightful wound in the cheek, rushed through the thick volumes, and knocked the pistol from Effie’s hand, before she could bring it to bear upon him, so unexpected was the wounded Indian’s recovery. A shriek escaped her when she found herself in the grasp of the devil, who dashed the Briton to earth with a blow with his tomahawk, as he advanced, for his own as well as the girl’s safety.