“If you leave me to return to the village alone, I shall meet death at the hands of the savages. They’ll kill me for breaking faith with them.” “Then go with me to the camp of the whites——” “And be shot as a _spy_!” Bradford completed. “True!” Douglas said slowly and impressively. “Bradford, you _are_ a British spy—an enemy of my country. I hate you—I despise you!”—The older man turned pale to the lips, but did not interrupt his companion.—“But you have befriended me; and I’ll not be guilty of the sin of ingratitude. You shan’t sacrifice your life for my liberty. Take my arms. I’m your prisoner.” “Keep your arms,” Bradford returned hoarsely, his chest heaving, his white lips twitching. “Reload your gun. We may have to fight shoulder to shoulder. Let’s be prepared to sell our lives dearly.” Silently Ross reloaded and primed his rifle. Then he said simply: “I’m ready.” “Come,” was the gruff response. Side by side, the two men ascended the slope and entered the unguarded gateway of the palisade. Duke accompanied them. An extraordinary spectacle met their gaze. Hundreds of armed warriors—Shawnees, Winnebagoes, Miamis, Wyandots, and others—were swarming promiscuously about. Squaws and children bearing bags and bundles hurried hither and thither. All was bustle and confusion. The whole resembled a hive of angry bees into which some venturesome youngster had thrust a stick. “What’s the meaning of all this?” Ross inquired of his companion. “They are preparing to abandon the town,” was the reply. “Shall we go with them?” “If we’re alive at the time—yes.” They elbowed their way through the throng, attracting no little attention. “Scar Face,” muttered a Winnebago, as they passed. “Fleet Foot,” grunted a Wyandot. “Does he mean you?” asked Bradford turning to his companion. “Yes.” “You merit the name. Does the Wyandot warrior know you?” “Undoubtedly. I’ve traded among the members of the tribe, for years.” “Do you speak their language?” “I speak several Indian tongues.” “So much the better. Our mutual knowledge may be of value to us.” They were conversing in low tones, all the while proceeding in the direction of the council-lodge. “And they call you Scar Face,” Douglas carelessly remarked. “Yes,” answered his companion, in a tone of intense bitterness—the red scar upon his cheek blazing like a beacon light of danger. Ross instantly realized his mistake, and hastened to say: “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I wouldn’t do that needlessly, though I look upon you as an enemy.” “I fully understand your feeling toward me,” Bradford replied, his features working. “It’s unnecessary for you to explain.” Douglas was surprised. Who was this strange man, to whom he owed his life and for whom he felt such antipathy—and who appeared determined to be his friend? To relieve his embarrassment, the younger man asked: “Have you spent much of your life among the Indians?” “Half of it,” was the curt reply.