Bright Wing ran to the palisade and sought to scale it. Failing at one point he tried another. Frantically he dug his fingers and toes into the crevices between the upright timbers. His efforts were fruitless. He did not dare to approach the spot where he had entered the inclosure; the guards near at hand were alert. The tramp-tramp of the marching warriors drew nearer. They were approaching the northeastern gate. The Wyandot made a final effort to climb the wall—and fell back. His heart sickened. Was he doomed to failure? The thought made him desperate. Recklessly he strode to the northeastern gateway and assayed to pass out. The click of a gun-lock brought him to a standstill. A guard stepped from the shadow and said: “Has my brother the Sign of the Prophet?” “He has _seen_ it,” Bright Wing mumbled, “but Tenskwatawa alone _has_ it.” “Why does my brother seek to go out alone?” “At the order of the great Winnemac he goes to scout,” was the quick-witted reply. “Ugh!” ejaculated the sentry, taking a step backward. The nimble-footed Wyandot darted through the gateway and disappeared—just as the head of the column of braves came in sight. Down the incline, across the swampy prairie, and up the slope leading to the camp of the whites, Bright Wing sped like the wind—never pausing until he drew near the line of sentries. The sky was thickly clouded; a gentle drizzle was falling. Dropping upon the ground, he watched and waited for a chance to elude the vigilance of the pickets. A white man would have given the alarm, by stepping forward and permitting himself to be challenged; but the proud Wyandot scorned to do anything of the kind. Minutes passed. Suddenly, a light footfall attracted his attention; and the next moment Duke’s cold muzzle touched his hand. “Go ’way—go to master!” Bright Wing commanded in a stern whisper. In answer the dog threw up his nose and sniffed the damp air. Then with a low growl, he bounded away toward camp. “Duke him smell redmen,” the Wyandot muttered to himself. “Me must go in quick—right away.” Little by little he wriggled forward—the sentry pacing his beat within a few feet of him. The next instant the intrepid young brave was upon his feet. Like a scudding cloud he glided to the barricade of wagons, and disappeared among them. A moment later he bent over the sleeping form of Ross Douglas and, shaking him roughly, cried: “Wake, Fleet Foot!”—The Indian name of his white friend.—“Up! Up! Winnemac and heap many braves come—come soon.” Douglas threw off his blanket, and, leaping to his feet, cried excitedly: “Did you say the Indians are coming, Bright Wing?” “Ugh!” grunted the imperturbable Wyandot. “Come quick soon—sight many.” “You mean they’re almost upon us?” “Ugh!” “How did you learn the fact?” “Bright Wing go to Prophet’s Town—learn big heap.”