The chief had scarcely touched the floor of the cave when Kenowatha sprung upon Wacomet. The fire of vengeance flashed from the youth’s eyes, and the Indian upon first thought felt disposed to meet him. But when his mind recurred to the prisoners he had borne from the cave a short time previous--to the reward he could obtain for the stricken soldier--to the prize in the person of Effie St. Pierre which he would lose should the battle prove disastrous to him, he retreated to the main corridor, into which he darted, as Kenowatha’s gun tore a ghastly furrow down his naked back. Knowing that it would be useless to follow Wacomet, Kenowatha turned to place his mark--the bloody cross--upon Leather-lips’ brow, to behold the spot where the sorcerer had fallen untenanted! “Kenowatha’s bullet did not find his heart,” he said, in a tone of bitter disappointment, “and the red sorcerer has fled. But Kenowatha will meet him again--when the broad sunlight falls upon his face, and then--then the mark shall crown his head. Ha!” and the speaker suddenly sprung to the opposite wall, his eyes fastened upon something thereon. Suddenly he paused before that which had excited his curiosity, and read, in French, the words that Effie had traced upon the limestone with the keil: “We are the prisoners of Wacomet, the Ottawa--destined for a hidden place somewhere.” The handwriting on the wall sent a thrill to Kenowatha’s heart. Who were included in the word “_we_?” If Nanette was a prisoner why had she been permitted to mark the dead Indians--still more, why were they still lying in the cave? The information was enveloped in mystery to Kenowatha, and the longer he gazed upon the words the more mysterious they grew. Prisoners of Wacomet alone! Why not of the entire League of Death, and why was Wacomet present but a moment since, and not with his prisoners? Unconscious, in the attempt to solve the mystery, that he was exposing his person to the balls and tomahawks of those who sought his life, Kenowatha stood before the wall until a footstep suddenly aroused him and caused him to face the niche in his rear. Immediately upon the precipitate retreat of Wacomet, the White Fox had rammed a bullet home, and now his rifle was directed at a spot just below a tuft of feathers in the niche. There he knew was a face, and whose face save that of one of his bitterest foes? A moment later might have sealed the doom of the person, when his name, pronounced as softly as woman ever spoke, came from the niche: “Kenowatha.” He sprung forward, a figure darted from the niche, and in the center of the cave he met the Girl Avenger!