“I’m telling you the truth, at any rate. By the way, how much better off would you be with Governor Harrison? I know that the supplies of the army were almost exhausted two days ago. By this time, the soldiers are feasting on horse-flesh.” “I should be a free man, at least,” Douglas interrupted in a tone of deep dejection. Bradford sighed as he resumed: “At this season of the year, game is scarce in this locality. If the worst comes, the savages will kill and eat all the horses and dogs in camp—your own surly brute included.” “Not until they have disposed of me,” Ross answered, his eyes flashing, his nostrils dilated. “That’s just what I fear. The dog will get you into trouble. Let me put a bullet through his brain.” “The moment you do, I’ll put one through yours,” was the fierce reply. “Let me hear no more on the subject. That dog is one of the true and disinterested friends I’m fortunate enough to have. He’d give his life for me—I’d shed my blood for him.” Again Bradford sighed deeply; but he said no more. They arose, shouldered their guns, and resumed their toilsome march. Just as they dropped into the moving line of savages, Tenskwatawa, mounted upon a magnificent black horse,—a gift of the English government,—rode past them. At the side of the clean-limbed steed, trotted a nimble, sure-footed gray pony; and seated upon its back was a young woman. The robe of rich furs that enveloped her person neatly concealed the fact that she rode astride. The hood of her cloak was thrown back, and a cataract of fine red-gold hair rippled down her shoulders. Her face was beautiful, her skin milk-white and satiny; and her eyes were the violet-blue of the midsummer skies. The rein she held in her small shapely hand was of braided horsehair, ornamented with shells and jingling coins; and the housings of her plump palfrey were of crimson cloth, trimmed with a fringe of gold. The Prophet sat stiffly erect in the saddle, looking neither to the right nor to the left; but not so, his fair companion. Douglas and Bradford stepped aside to let the riders pass. As they did so, the prisoner glanced up and encountered the young woman’s gaze fixed upon him. He could not remove his eyes from her face; he did not try to do so. Boldly he stared at her until her lids dropped, her cheeks flamed, and the faintest hint of a smile parted her red lips, revealing a row of even, white teeth. Then she shyly peeped at him from under her long lashes; and turning aside her face, rode on. Ross was surprised; excited. He stood staring after the lovely apparition—his lips apart, his chest heaving—until Bradford, touching him on the arm, said: “What’s the matter—have you seen a ghost?” “An angel, rather,” Douglas replied so solemnly that his companion burst out laughing. But the younger man did not join in the older’s merriment. Instead, he asked impatiently: “Who is she?” “An Indian squaw.” And Bradford continued to laugh as though greatly amused.