Fire-face was on the lookout: he appeared to show himself in the way of danger for the pleasure of overcoming it. He would remain at ease until the party was near him; and then, like an arrow from the bow, he would fly through the village, no man daring to stay him: and you might as well have attempted to catch the sunbeam on the waters as the hunted man. Pursuit was unavailing, and the soldiers each time returned disappointed to the Fort. He would soon come back to the encampment. What a courage was his, thus purposely throwing himself in the way of danger, knowing too that he had not one friend to whom he could turn. His frightened, helpless family alone cared for him. It was evidently a pleasure to him to be in a situation of peril, to show his adroitness in extricating himself. About ten o'clock one night he sat in his lodge, gloomily meditating on his position. Could he eventually escape the pursuit of his enemies? Was he not a doomed man, when the bands of friendship were severed between him and those with whom he had fought, and whose lives had been tracing an even course with his? The children's heavy breathing was the only sound that could be heard. His wives sat mute in the lodge. He had been hunted to the death, and now sleep was overcoming him, and his watchfulness was yielding to his fatigue; while he thought to lay his tomahawk beside him, and seek repose, the door of his lodge was turned aside, and the long-knives (as the soldiers were called) were upon him. Their exulting looks were met by his calmest demeanour: he offered no resistance; but when the soldiers placed their hands upon his wrists to secure the captive, he glided from their grasp as easily as a serpent might pass from the touch of a child; he bounded from their sight, and again they vainly sought the strange man: the protecting shades of night were about him, and he knew full well the hiding-places of the neighbourhood. When out of their reach he laughed as he looked at his oiled hands and arms, for _there_ was the secret of his escape. Morning found him again in his lodge, calm, fearless as ever. The Sioux thought he must wear a charmed life, and they kept from the reach of his arm: and the children, even his own, played where they could not see his dark face as he watched their amusements. There is a spell, however, that few Indians can resist; it is to them an unfailing quietus for care: they can fancy they are free when fire-water quickens the coursing of their veins. They curse the white man from the heart, and hope and look forward to the time when the red man shall have his own again. They then forget that the outstretched arms of desolation are ready to clasp them, and that destruction, like the night-bird, is hovering over their heads with its hoarse cry sounding to their hearts.