Before three o’clock on the following morning, the guide re–entered the barn with a light step; not so light, however, as to escape the quick ear of the young Indian, who leapt from his straw couch, and throwing his rifle over his shoulder, stood before the hunter. “I hope you slept well,” said the latter, “and that your arm gives you less pain?” “I slept till you came,” said the boy, “and the pain sleeps still. I feel nothing of it.” “Wingenund will be like his father,” said the guide; “he will laugh at pain and fatigue and danger; and his war–path will be sprinkled with the blood of his enemies.” The youth drew himself proudly up; and though gratified by the guide’s observation, merely replied, “The Great Spirit knows.—I am ready; let us go.” Baptiste had provided a couple of horses, and they started at a brisk pace, as he wished to reach the spot where he had appointed to meet War–Eagle soon after daylight. To one less familiar with the woods, the tangled and winding path through which he led the way would have offered many impediments; but Baptiste went rapidly forward without hesitation or difficulty, Wingenund following in silence; and after a brisk ride of three hours they came to an opening in the forest, where a log–hut was visible, and beyond it the broad expanse of Ohio’s stream. The guide here whispered to Wingenund to remain concealed in the thicket with the horses, whilst he reconnoitred the hut; because he knew that it was sometimes used as a shelter and a rendezvous by some of the lawless and desperate characters on the borders of the settlements. Having finished his examination, and ascertained that the hut was empty, he returned to Wingenund, and desired him to come down to the water’s edge, where he was to make a signal for War–Eagle, who ought to be now at no great distance. The youth accordingly went to the river’s bank, and understanding from the guide that there was no occasion for further concealment, he gave three whistles in a peculiar tone, but exceedingly loud and shrill. For some time they listened for a reply. Nothing was heard, except the beak of the woodpecker upon the bark of the elm, and the notes of the various feathered choristers chirping their matin song. After a pause of several minutes, the guide said, “Surely some accident has detained War–Eagle! Perhaps he has failed in getting the canoe. Repeat the signal, Wingenund.” “War–Eagle is here,” replied the youth, who was quietly leaning on his rifle, with an abstracted air. Again, the guide listened attentively; and as he was unable to distinguish the slightest sound indicative of the chief’s approach, he was rather vexed at the superior quickness implied in Wingenund’s reply, and said somewhat testily, “A moose might hear something of him, or a bloodhound might find the wind of him, but I can make out nothing, and my ears an’t used to be stuffed with cotton, neither!”