Then he and his dog were gone—and she was alone. She dropped upon the bare floor and hid her face. But she did not weep. Her grief over her loss, her anxiety for his safety, were too great. A blood-curdling whoop and the patter of moccasined feet, from time to time, came to her ears; but no one entered the cabin. A prey to suspense, she arose at last and went out of doors. Douglas’s enemies were continuing their search. She dimly discerned their dark forms flitting here and there. Aimlessly she sauntered toward the Prophet’s hut. Just as she reached it, a number of warriors were entering the door. She followed them; and heard the leader say to Tenskwatawa, who stood at one end of the room, directly under a flaring torch stuck into the wall: “Fleet Foot has escaped. He is in hiding about the village. Does Tenskwatawa know aught of him?” The Prophet expanded his chest, and, raising his right hand, said severely: “Tenskwatawa is the father of his red children. He does not befriend the palefaces. Begone!” At that moment, the speaker chanced to glance at his own hand. He saw that his ring was gone. An expression of unspeakable surprise overspread his horrid features. With the whimpering cry of a whipped child, he dropped upon his knees and began to search for the talisman. Not finding it, he silently arose to his feet, an expression of absolute imbecility upon his face. Then appearing to realize the magnitude of the misfortune that had befallen him, he dropped to the floor in a writhing heap, moaning and beating his chest. “Ugh!” ejaculated the leader of the band. “Tenskwatawa has lost his sign—his power. See! He is weak—he whines like a sick squaw! Ugh!” And with a parting volley of contemptuous exclamations, the braves hastily left the room. La Violette leaned against the wall and calmly looked upon the whining, moaning wretch at her feet. Now she fully realized what she had done; but she had no regret. She had done it for the sake of the man she loved! The Prophet was indeed shorn of his power. From that day forth, his influence over his people rapidly declined. CHAPTER XIII. It was the close of a hot July day. The surface of the placid Scioto glinted in the red rays of the setting sun. The dark-green forests surrounding the little village of Franklinton grew darker, as the tremulous twilight faded into dewy dusk. Blue smoke curled gracefully from the mud-daubed chimneys of the villagers’ cabins. A tinkling cowbell broke the stillness—a twinkling star peeped from the dusky vault above. Swallows skimmed low along the shores of the gently-flowing river. Insect voices joined in a monotonous threnody. Lights began to gleam from cottage windows and doors.