“Circumstances change the aspect of many plain cases. Your father shall not be tried for his crime; he shall go free. But the matter must forever remain a secret between ourselves—even your trusty comrades mustn’t know. This afternoon an officer and escort will bear a flag of truce to the British camp, to complete arrangements for an exchange of prisoners. You will take your father and accompany them. Bring the young woman back with you; but leave your father there, with the injunction that he is to make his way to Canada and never set foot upon American soil again. Wait a moment—I’ll give you an order for his release.” A quarter of an hour after, father and son issued from the blockhouse together—and John Douglas was a free man. In the full light of the murky day, he looked bent, worn, and feeble; and he kept close to his stalwart son’s side, as though looking to him for guidance and protection. Shortly after noon, the two joined the officer and escort, who were setting out for the British encampment. On their way toward the eastern gate of the fortification, they were joined by Farley, Bright Wing, and the hound. “Where’ve you been all the forenoon, Ross?” the old woodman demanded in an injured tone. “Me an’ the Injin an’ dog’s been huntin’ you all over the place. Duke nosed ’round, an’ said you was down at that blockhouse”—pointing with the barrel of his gun.—“But me an’ the Injin knowed that couldn’t be, ’cause ther’s pris’ners in there—an’ you wouldn’t have no business with them. Then the houn’ took up a ’maginary trail, and tracked you to Ol’ Tippecanoe’s tent. We knowed that was a lie, too; ’cause we peeked in, an’ you wasn’t there. So we’ve kind o’ lost faith in the purp. The smell o’ blood, yisterday, must ’ave spiled his scent. But where’ve you been?” Scarcely slacking his pace, Douglas replied briefly: “I was at the blockhouse and at General Harrison’s quarters. Duke told you the truth.” “You was!” Joe ejaculated. “Well, dang my skin if the dog didn’t know more’n a couple o’ human critters—he did, by Tabithy! Purp, I beg y’r pardon. But where’re you goin’ now, Ross?” “To the English camp.” “I’ve heerd it said,” Farley grumbled, “that the burnt child dreaded the fire; but you seem to be an ’xception to the rule. Ross Douglas, what in the name o’ goodness ’re you goin’ over there fer? Oh, I’m an ol’ fool! I might ’ave knowed. You’re goin’ over to git that little red-headed gal, of course——” He suddenly stopped speaking. His watery eyes bulged; his jaw dropped. He had caught a square look at Ross’s companion. “W’y, dang—it—all—to—dingnation!” he mumbled. “If that ain’t the scar-faced scout that was with Gener’l Harrison, at Tippecanoe, it’s his ghost. An’ he looks more like a ghost ’n a mortal man—he does, by cracky!” “Ugh! Scar Face—much sick, sight lean,” Bright Wing grunted.