A short time after Tecumseh’s departure for Canada, an Indian runner arrived in the Mississinewa village. He brought the news that what had been expected long, had happened at last—that war had been declared between the United States and Great Britain, and that both nations were making preparations for a final struggle for supremacy upon the border. This intelligence greatly pleased Tenskwatawa and his braves. They saw a chance for scalps and plunder—and promptly resolved to join the British. The night of the messenger’s arrival was spent in feasting and rejoicing. Speeches were made, and war-songs were chanted. When morning dawned, numbers of the warriors at once set out for the scenes of expected conflict. If Hiram Bradford was elated over the news received, he succeeded in concealing the fact from Douglas. The latter was depressed and sorrowful. Well he knew what would be the fate of many exposed posts and settlements upon the border, as the result of such a war. La Violette listened attentively to the impassioned speeches of the chiefs—speeches counseling murder and pillage—and sighed heavily. Yet when Ross questioned her as to what she thought, she replied firmly: “The redmen have been wronged—deeply wronged. Their cause is a just one. They seek to recover what is their own; and they mean to take advantage of this opportunity. They should not be blamed; for in vain have they pleaded for justice. They will join the English, hoping to recover the land of their fathers. If the Seventeen Fires be successful in the struggle, the condition of the redmen will be no worse; if the English gain the victory, the condition of the redmen will be bettered—I hope, though I cannot fully trust the promises of the British. That the Indians will commit excesses is to be expected. No one deplores their mode of warfare more than I. But they are ignorant, superstitious, revengeful savages. God made them such.” “La Violette, you talk as though these same ignorant savages were your people, your relatives—as though their cause was your own,” Ross said sadly. Her eyes flashed and her chest heaved, as she said angrily: “What is it to you, Ross Douglas, how I talk—what I think? These miserable beings are all the friends I have—all I expect to have. You do not care who I am, what I am, or what may become of me! Why do you concern yourself about what I _say_ or _think_? Your only desire is to escape and return to your—your home, to forget that you ever saw me!” Bursting into tears, she turned and left him staring after her. For the next few days Douglas was in a fever of unrest. Now he had an additional incentive to escape. His country again needed his services. He could not delay much longer—he must make the attempt, though he should court death in so doing. He said to himself: