With his coat, the Briton now stood near the mouth of the fissure, driving back the smoke that the wind drove in upon them, and causing them to gasp for breath. Every now and then a voice in French--a voice which the culprit readily recognized--summoned him to surrender; but he would reply with an oath, daring the enemy to advance within reach of his pistols. The command was uttered by Mitre St. Pierre, who seemed to be the leader of the attacking party, among which might be some of the major’s comrades, disguised as braves. At last, unable to remain near the mouth of the fissure any longer Effie shrunk around an angle, and there gasped for breath, with the spasms of a dying person. Once she called to the major to surrender and trust to the future for escape; but his reply was so blasphemous, so full of wicked threats, that the girl closed her ears against them, and sunk, utterly exhausted, upon the natural floor. The Briton fought the smoke bravely; but, while he drove much out, the wind hurled a thousand dark volumes in, and he felt his already greatly impaired strength deserting him. Now and then a contrary current of wind would drive the smoke away and enable him to see his exulting enemies; but this was only for a moment, and before he could drop one with his pistols, he would be forced to resume the coat and fight the smoke again. The heat was as intolerable as its black accompaniment. The undergrowth fringed the very edge of the fissure, and when it took fire great blisters appeared on the felon’s skin, and the flames scorched his coat. There seemed but one result to the startling drama. The foes in the ravine watched their work with self-congratulations of triumph, for they already felt the daring culprit in their grasp, and in fancy saw him paying the penalty of his crime between heaven and earth in Fort Miami. A short distance from the main body of painted braves, stood a man easily recognizable as Mitre St. Pierre. Though not clad in the nudity that characterized his followers, he wore a head-dress that proclaimed him a chief among the Ottawas. True to his word, given to Mark Morgan, in the heat of passion, he had joined the Indians against the Americans, found himself elevated to the dignity of a chief at once, and entered into the work of blood, with the avidity of the jungle hyena. Upon the morning when he and his band discovered the major and his captive on the Canada trail, he was hunting for one of Mad Anthony’s spies, who had ridden through the Ottawa village in the broad light of day, and who was supposed to be in the neighborhood of the ravine. “Girl, where are you?” called out Rudolph Runnion, somewhat alarmed at the silence that succeeded his harsh reply to her suggestion of surrender. “Speak, and let me know if you’re living yet. The end is near at hand, and a bloody ending it’s going to be.”