The girl looked her interrogator in the face and nodded. Tenskwatawa remained silent. The stillness of the room was oppressive. At last the Prophet removed his hands from her shoulders and, bowing his head, muttered brokenly: “It is well. Where her heart is, La Violette should be. She is a paleface maiden; she loves a paleface brave. She shall be the light of his lodge—as she has been the light of Tenskwatawa’s life.” Then, extending his hand to her: “My daughter, farewell. The Great Spirit gave you to me—he takes you from me. Great is my sorrow; but I will bear it as becomes a Shawnee. My sign is lost; my power has departed. My children spurn my words of advice; the English laugh at my undoing. My sorrow is great. I can bear it—I am a Shawnee. My daughter, farewell—farewell, _forever_!” Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed upon his breast. “Tenskwatawa, my father, you have been kind to me. I have tried to be a daughter to you. Now I am about to leave you forever—to return to my own people. The Great Spirit wills it so. My father, I would exact one promise from you at parting.” Gently he disengaged himself from her embrace, and answered: “What my daughter desires, I will do.” “Then,” she cried, “use all your influence—all your power—to dissuade your children from fighting longer under the English banner. The Seventeen Fires will conquer in the end. The Great Spirit wills it. The redmen will lose their lives and their lands to no purpose. Promise me you will do what I ask.” “It is too late,” he replied dejectedly. “My children are mad with the taste of blood. No longer will they listen to my voice. I helped to lead them into this; now I cannot drag them out. They are dogs for the English; they bay along the trail—they obey the lash. Tecumseh, my brother, has their ears; they will not hear my words. I have sinned; and thus the Great Spirit punishes me. My daughter, I shall see you no more. Farewell!” Drawing his blanket over his head, to hide his emotion, the Prophet quitted the cabin. His thin lips were set; and his horrid, painted face was drawn and ashen. A moment afterward, John Douglas entered and remarked briskly: “You must be off. Make haste! I’ll accompany you to the river.” La Violette made a compact bundle of her few effects, and announced herself as ready. John Douglas led the way from the cabin. Farley and Bright Wing still stood without; and Duke was smelling around the door. As La Violette stepped into the open air, the dog fawned upon her, evincing his pleasure at again meeting her. Tears sprang to her eyes; and, patting the animal’s head, she murmured: “Ah! You remember me, good fellow.” “Duke forgets neither his friends nor his enemies,” Ross said smilingly. Farley stepped forward and, doffing his cap and extending a grimy hand, remarked: