Ross made no reply; John Douglas did not glance around, even. By this time, the squad of soldiers had reached the gate and were passing through. Father and son hastened to overtake them. Farley and his companion kept close upon the heels of those in advance; and with them left the fortification. Ross thought his comrades had stopped within the walls—and felt relieved. He did not notice their presence, until he stood at the water’s edge. “What are you doing here, Joe?” he demanded sharply. “We’re goin’ with you,” Farley returned coolly. “You cannot,” Ross said firmly. “Take the dog and return to the fort.” But Joe and the Wyandot stubbornly shook their heads; and Duke, dropping upon his haunches, looked appealingly into his master’s face. “Take Duke and go back to the fortification,” Ross repeated, with difficulty repressing a smile at the childlike pertinacity of his friends. “We ain’t a-goin’ back,” Farley answered sullenly. “Ugh! No go back—go with Fleet Foot,” the Indian muttered. “Why?” the young man asked impatiently. “You may need us,” Farley explained. “We don’t over an’ above like the company you’re keepin’.”—With a jerk of his thumb toward John Douglas. Ross dropped his eyes to the ground. His face flushed hotly. He was in a quandary; he did not know what to do or say. The soldiers had launched a boat, and were scrambling into it. “Come on—don’t delay us,” the officer called. “Here are two of my comrades who desire to accompany me,” Ross hastened to explain. The officer cut him short with: “Bring them along—but be quick about it. The boat will accommodate us all.” A few minutes later, the entire party had landed on the opposite shore and were making their way toward the British encampment. There the American officer engaged in a consultation with General Proctor and his staff, while Ross Douglas and his companions went to the quarters of Tenskwatawa and La Violette, at Fort Miami. John Douglas led the way into the stockade of the old fort. The place was filled with Indians and white prisoners. Some of the latter were ill-fated settlers; others were the luckless Kentuckians of General Clay’s command. Several of the militiamen knew Ross Douglas and, calling to him, asked what were the prospects of a speedy exchange. He answered their questions briefly as he hurried along. Occasionally a guttural voice exclaimed—“Fleet Foot!”; and the young man became aware that many of the savages recognized him and were scowling at him. But they did not offer to impede the progress of the small party. Scar Face, whom they hated and feared, was leading it. On reaching the farther side of the inclosure, John Douglas stopped and whispered to his son: