A bound brought Douglas to the young woman’s side. It was the work of a moment, to snatch her from the saddle and bear her limp form up the slope. Relieved of its fair burden, the terrorized pony turned and fled up the trail, with the stampeding pack-horses snorting and panting behind it. As they labored up the steep grade, with their heavy packs still clinging tenaciously to them, their terror gradually subsided; and near the top of the hill, the Indians surrounded and caught them. When the stampede had thundered by, Bradford got upon his feet and stared wildly around. In the deep gloom he caught a dim outline of Douglas supporting the trembling form of La Violette. Running to them, he exclaimed in a voice faltering with emotion: “Both of you are alive. But are you unharmed?” “Unharmed and untouched,” Ross replied calmly. “Thank God!” was the fervent response. The young woman lifted her head from Douglas’s shoulder and, gently withdrawing from his embrace, said tremulously: “I sincerely thank you for rescuing me from death. But I do not know you. Will you tell me to whom I owe my life?” She spoke in excellent English, but with a slightly foreign accent. After a moment’s silence, Ross answered: “My name is Ross Douglas.” “You are an American?” “I am.” “And a prisoner?” “Yes.” Extending a small, warm hand—which Douglas quickly imprisoned in his broad palm—she remarked naïvely: “You risked your life to rescue me from danger, although you are an enemy of my people. I will not forget your valor. I will do what I can to procure your release——” “Perhaps, La Violette, you are not aware that your rescuer is _my_ prisoner,” Bradford interjected, laughing. Petulantly stamping her moccasined foot, she replied proudly: “I neither know nor care _whose_ prisoner he is. He has saved me from a horrible death; I will befriend him.” Then hastily withdrawing her hand from Ross’s detaining clasp: “But my father! Where is he?” “Have no fear for Tenskwatawa’s safety,” Bradford said in reassuring tones. “His horse carried him out of danger. Ah! I hear the sound of hoofs. He’s returning.” The panic-stricken savages were resuming the march. Down the trail came a body of braves with the runaway pack-horses. At their head rode the Prophet, leading his daughter’s pony. “La Violette! La Violette!” he called wailingly. “Here, father—here I am,” she answered in a clear, bird-like voice, as she descended to the trail. Tenskwatawa sprang to the ground and, enfolding her in his strong arms, murmured gutturally: “The Great Spirit is very kind. He spared your life, my daughter.” “Yes, father,” La Violette assented; “but the young paleface carried me out of the way of danger.” “Who?” in a low, fierce tone. “Fleet Foot,” Bradford answered from the darkness. “Ugh!” the Prophet grunted ungraciously.