A great rivalry existed between the officers, and at length the field was left to one who was considered Effie’s choice from the many. Major Rudolph Runnion was a handsome man, but strongly addicted to the twin vices that beset the soldier doing dull garrison duty--drinking and gambling. Educated at Oxford, when quite young, he possessed a fine education, purchased a commission in the English army, and soon found himself assigned to garrison duty in America. His talents and manners were his passport to the friendship of Effie St. Pierre, and if the girl exhibited partiality for either of her suitors it was for the British major. She was ignorant of his vices, and, whenever convenient, the old trader would speak to her in a tone that told her that he desired her, some day, to become the Briton’s bride. While the falling twilight beheld the scene enacted in the first chapter, Effie St. Pierre encountered a young Ottawa Indian before the Post. She recognized the red boy who had borne many messages from the British fort to her forest home. “Ha! the Angel of the Maumee walks in the evening,” said the youthful Indian, pausing before the girl, and drawing a delicate _billet doux_ from beneath his capote. Effie St. Pierre glanced at the superscription, easily recognized as Major Runnion’s. “What can be his wishes to-night, to-night?” she murmured, breaking the waxen seal; and a minute later, in the gloaming, she read: “Effie--I am in trouble. Meet me ’neath the giant cottonwood opposite the cove. I await you there. For the love of Heaven, fail not to come. Rudolph.” She looked up at the young Ottawa, as if she doubted the authenticity of the note. Major Rudolph Runnion in trouble? Scarce five hours before he had left the Post, in merry spirits, and while he walked away she heard him singing a gleeful love song, which he had learned from her lips. “Why does the white girl’s eyes pierce Omatla?” asked the Indian boy. “Does she think that he has carried a forked letter to her?” She met his interrogatives with another. “Where is the scarlet soldier?” “Down beneath the big cottonwood.” “Is he ill?” “He is wild in his head,” said the young Indian, touching his forehead. “He walks up and down the river, beneath the leaves of the big tree, shuts and opens his hands, and mutters words that Omatla could not understand. Does he want the white girl to come to him?” “Yes.” “Then let the white girl go,” said the youthful Ottawa. “Her hand can cool the scarlet soldier’s head.” “Omatla, has any thing unusual transpired at the fort to-day?” questioned Effie, determined not to leave the trading-post without caution. “Now must Omatla’s lips close,” was the unexpected reply, “and he must go to the soldier and say that the Angel of the Maumee turns from him when the dark clouds gather.”