“The enemies of Fleet Foot are gathering in front of the council-lodge. Soon they will make another attempt to kill him. When they come, he must not be here. La Violette will take him to her lodge—will hide him where they dare not enter, where they cannot find him. As soon as Long Gun hears the mob coming, he and his braves will slip away in the darkness. Does Long Gun understand?” Greatly relieved—for he had been apprehensive of the result of the attack that was sure to come—Long Gun replied: “La Violette is wise and good. Long Gun will do her bidding.” “It is well,” she answered simply, and entered the cabin. Douglas lay upon his couch, dreading what the night might have in store for him. His guards had given him food and drink, at noon and early in the evening. Duke sat beside the bed, lovingly licking his master’s manacled hands and whining softly. Ross first became aware of La Violette’s presence, when she bent over him, severed his bonds, and whispered in his ear: “Come with me—and do not speak or make a noise.” Without a murmur he arose and meekly accompanied her from the cabin. Duke silently followed. La Violette’s hut was but a few rods from the one Douglas had occupied; but she took a circuitous route, to avoid observation, and approached the building from the rear. On reaching its interior—which was in absolute darkness—she said in an agitated undertone: “Remain here until I return. I will be gone but a few minutes.” Left alone, Ross threw himself upon the floor, and rubbed and kneaded his stiffened and swollen limbs. He wondered what La Violette’s intentions were. While he was still ransacking his brain for an answer, the young woman returned. “Fleet Foot,” she called softly, musically, as she stepped within the room and let fall the curtain of skins. “Here,” he replied, as he arose to his feet. Guided by his voice, she found her way to his side, and murmured: “Here is gun, knife, and ammunition. In the pouch you will find food.” With the words, she placed the things in his outstretched hands. Now he understood her intentions. But he said nothing—his heart was too full. “Have you flint and steel?” she inquired. “Yes,” he managed to articulate. “But one thing more—then you must be off. Hold out your right hand.” He did so; and felt her placing something upon his finger. “What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper. “Giving you a ring.” “A ring?” in surprise. “Yes; Tenskwatawa’s talisman—the Sign of the Prophet.” “Why do you do that?” he inquired in wonder and amazement.