Neither to the threats nor the inquiries of Mahéga did Wingenund deign to make any reply, and the enraged chief struck him across the face with the heavy bull–hide whip suspended from his wrist[52]; the blow was given with such force that it laid open the youth’s cheek, and a stream of blood poured from the cut. At the sight of this unmanly outrage, the self–control of Prairie–bird almost gave way; but a look from her brother recalled her to herself, and checked the impulse which would have led to the utterance of entreaty mingled with indignant reproach. “Speak not, my sister,” said the hero boy in the Delaware tongue; “speak not to the cowardly Washashee wolf! Waste not your breath on one who has only courage to strike when his enemy’s hands are tied!” Mahéga fixed his eyes upon the maiden, and a sudden thought lighted up his countenance with a gleam of malignant triumph. Approaching close to her, he said in a stern low whisper, “To–morrow, before the sun goes down, Olitipa becomes the bride of Mahéga, or that boy is burnt at a slow fire with such tortures as the Lenapé never thought of in dreams!” So saying, he ordered the prisoner to be carefully guarded, and left the tent. CHAPTER XIII. WAR–EAGLE’S PARTY FOLLOW THE TRAIL.—A SKIRMISH AND ITS RESULTS.—THE CHIEF UNDERTAKES A PERILOUS JOURNEY ALONE, AND HIS COMPANIONS FIND SUFFICIENT OCCUPATION DURING HIS ABSENCE. Notwithstanding the pains that Wingenund had taken to leave on the trail such occasional indications as might assist War–Eagle in following it, the progress made by the latter was much slower than might have been expected by any one who knew the fierce desire of vengeance that burnt within him. Several times did the impatience of Reginald Brandon vent itself in words, which he addressed in an under–tone to Baptiste. “I fear that my Delaware brother has lost some of his energies, in this great calamity which has befallen his tribe; when he followed the Dahcotah trail his foot was light and swift; now, when more than life and death may hang upon the events of an hour, his march is heavy and slow as that of a jaded ox.” “Master Reginald,” replied the guide, “you do the War–Eagle wrong. A trail on this hard barren region is not like one in the prairies of Illinois or Missouri, where, in every little bottom, there are patches of long grass on which it is marked as plain as a high–road. We have passed to–day several trails of strange Indians, probably Aricarás or Upsarokas[53]; had the War–Eagle made a mistake and followed one of these, we might have wandered several days before we recovered our right route; watch his eye, it is bent on the ground, not a blade of grass escapes it; he has not time for a word, even with you.”