He remained silent. Again she gave him that meaning glance; but he could not fathom it. At that moment, the sound of voices in angry altercation came to their ears. “Secure his hands!” La Violette cried to the guard, as she sprang past him and planted her slender form in the doorway. The sight that met her gaze was one calculated to unnerve the bravest man. Fifty armed warriors had overpowered Long Gun and his faithful few, and were rushing toward the spot where she stood. Only too well she knew what it meant. The infuriated mob were bent upon murdering Ross Douglas. On they came, brandishing their weapons and yelling like demons. Their painted faces were contorted with rage; their eyes gleamed with the fire of their hellish purpose. The hot blood forsook La Violette’s face, and surged in a sickening flood to her heart and brain. Her vision grew misty; her limbs trembled. But she set her white teeth and firmly stood her ground. The leaders of the mob reached the hut. With angry exclamations, they came to a sudden halt, as they beheld the daughter of the Prophet barring the entrance. “La Violette must stand aside!” shouted a burly warrior. “We want the young paleface. We mean to kill him—to tear him limb from limb!” The girl neither spoke nor moved; but she sternly fastened her eyes upon the speaker—and he recoiled a step. “Out of the way! Out of the way!” bellowed the mob. “Never!” she answered in clear, ringing tones. They surged forward, threatening to crush her under foot. She did not flinch, but raising her voice to the highest pitch, cried imperiously: “Hold! I—La Violette—command you!” They wavered—faltered—paused. Taking advantage of their temporary indecision, she continued breathlessly: “You shall not kill this helpless prisoner! I—the daughter of the Prophet—command you to disperse. You shall not harm the paleface, unless you first kill me! Do you dare to kill Tenskwatawa’s daughter—the gift of the Great Spirit? Make but a move to touch me, and the Great Spirit will strike you dead in your tracks!” Her eyes were blazing; her breast heaving. To the superstitious warriors who faced her, she was the living, breathing embodiment of supernatural power. Awed into silence, they forgot their purpose and began to draw away from her dread presence. “Go—and quickly!” she commanded sternly. “Ere I lose my patience and call down upon you the curse of the Great Spirit!” They waited to hear no more; but silently, sullenly shrunk away and disappeared among the neighboring huts. “Saved—saved for the present!” La Violette panted, as she staggered into the cabin and sank in a quivering heap upon the floor. “La Violette,” Ross called gently. In answer, she burst into tears and sobbed softly. After a time she regained control of her feelings, and, arising, went to his side. “You have saved my life, at the risk of your own,” he said with feeling.