“Fleet Foot fought only to save his life. He was attacked by twenty braves. I ran to his rescue. I saved his life and brought him here. He is my prisoner. Let Tenskwatawa enter the council lodge and again talk with the Great Spirit.” “Tenskwatawa has no need to talk further with the Great Spirit nor with Scar Face,” the Prophet muttered in a decided tone. “The young paleface is of the Seventeen Fires; he fought with the great White Chief—he must die.” “If Fleet Foot meets death at the hands of the redmen, I meet death with him,” Bradford said firmly. An evil smile flickered around the corners of Tenskwatawa’s wide mouth, as he replied menacingly: “If Scar Face be so anxious to meet death, he has not far to go. I will call my children and give him and Fleet Foot as toys, into their hands.” The Prophet opened his lips, to carry his threat into execution. As though understanding the import of what had been said, Duke raised his bristles and growled hoarsely. Startled by the sound, the Prophet recoiled a step. Taking advantage of his unguarded attitude, Bradford dropped his gun, and leaping forward, caught the Shawnee around the body and carried him into the council lodge. Douglas and Duke quickly followed. Setting the red hypnotist in the center of the bare floor, Bradford panted fiercely: “You infernal impostor and scoundrel! Your uncanny power has no influence over me. I am no superstitious Winnemac. You would give Fleet Foot and me into the hands of your red fiends, eh? Well, you shall die first!” Bradford spoke in the Shawnee tongue; and the Prophet understood every word. The boastful braggart cowered and trembled. Cowardice was written in every lineament of his features. A sickly pallor overspread his face. He could not articulate a sound. He fearfully rolled his eyes from side to side. But no chance of escape offered—no attendants were at hand. Turning to his companion, Bradford asked hurriedly: “You brought my gun in with you?” Ross nodded. “Well, see that both pieces are in order. I’ll kill this miscreant—then we’ll make a running fight for it. It’s all that is left us.” Tenskwatawa was shaking like one with senile palsy. Bradford drew his knife and swiftly advanced upon him. The base wretch dropped upon his knees and supplicatingly raised his hands. He tried to speak; but naught save the chatter of his teeth broke the stillness of the big, dark room. “Die, treacherous devil!” Bradford hissed as he raised his arm to strike. “Mercy!” Tenskwatawa managed to gasp. “Mercy!” sneered Scar Face, still holding the knife aloft. “Dare you beg for mercy? What mercy have _you_ ever shown? You condemn my friend and me to death—yet ask me to show mercy to _you_!” “Mercy!” the craven lips whispered. “Scar Face and his friend shall go free; my children shall not harm them.” A husky laugh gurgled in Bradford’s throat, as he answered: