“Y-e-s,” the scar-faced scout answered doubtingly, “but you’ve been among the palefaces—I saw you there, you know. You’ve been scouting for them.” “Ugh!” Bright Wing grunted. “_You_ scout for palefaces, too. Me see _you_ there.” Bradford was disconcerted by the Wyandot’s shrewd replies. Now he cried irritably: “Let’s understand each other, my red friend. I was among the Americans as a spy. What were you doing in their service?” “Bright Wing him spy, too,” was the unmoved rejoinder. “And you have left them and come to fight with your people?” “Ugh! me fight with friends. Paleface fight with redmen?” “No,” Bradford reluctantly admitted; “I shan’t fight with them. I can better help them in another way. Where are you going?” “Bright Wing him go find friends. Good-night.” The Wyandot stalked away, leaving Bradford staring after him. “It may be all right,” muttered the latter, “but I greatly doubt it. I suspect that cunning fellow’s here as a spy. But how did he pass the guards at the gate? Ah! here comes Gray Wolf!” Gray Wolf was a gigantic, vicious-looking Shawnee. Evidently he and Bradford were old acquaintances. They held a hurried conversation. Then Gray Wolf hastened away in pursuit of Bright Wing. He came upon the Wyandot in an obscure corner of the inclosure, just as the latter was preparing to scale the palisade. “Why is my brother here by himself?” the Shawnee suavely asked in his own tongue. “Perhaps it pleases him to be alone,” Bright Wing answered haughtily, in the same language. “And perhaps he means to leave the village?” “And if he does, has he not the same right to go and come as the birds of the air or the beasts of the forest?” “But Tenskwatawa has given orders that none shall leave the village until the appointed time. I know my brother. He is Bright Wing, a Wyandot.” “And _I_ know my brother. _He_ is Gray Wolf, a Shawnee.” The two warriors stood glaring at each other in the darkness. Gray Wolf was the first to speak again. He said in a low, intense tone of voice: “My brother is the friend of the palefaces—the enemy of his race.” Bright Wing replied proudly: “The words that fall from my brother’s lips are not the words of truth. Bright Wing is the true friend of his race.” “Does he stand ready to prove it?” Gray Wolf asked sneeringly. “He does,” was the frigid reply. “Has he the Sign of the Prophet?” “He has.” “Bright Wing has a forked tongue—it refuses to speak the truth,” Gray Wolf cried triumphantly. “Many have _seen_ the Sign of the Prophet, and felt its power—but Tenskwatawa alone _has_ it.” “Gray Wolf knows that he lies!” Bright Wing answered fiercely. “For at this moment Winnemac bears the Sign of the Prophet.” The Shawnee was taken aback. The answer was unexpected. He growled savagely: “Bright Wing is the dog of the palefaces. What does he here?” The Wyandot leaned forward and hissed in the other’s ear: