Nevertheless, there was one in the camp who did not stand in awe of the great chief. That person was La Violette. From her cabin door she had noted Tecumseh’s arrival, had observed the meeting of the two brothers, and had witnessed their wordy encounter and its result. Now she appeared upon the scene. The warriors saw her coming and respectfully stepped aside to let her pass. With the speed and grace of a fawn, she ran toward the spot where the Prophet was struggling in the iron grasp of his enraged brother. Her light feet appeared scarcely to touch the ground; her unconfined tresses streamed behind her; her violet eyes sparkled with excitement. A small white hand was laid upon Tecumseh’s arm, and an imperious young voice commanded: “Hold, noble chief! Would you kill Tenskwatawa—the prophet of his people—my father!” Like one suddenly recalled from a delirium, Tecumseh loosened his hold upon his brother’s throat and staggered back a step. Slowly he lifted his eyes. They met those of La Violette—and he stood abashed before her. The Prophet, released from the other’s cruel grasp, sank upon the ground, shivering and moaning. The purplish hue forsook his face; a deathly pallor succeeded it. He attempted to arise, but his limbs refused to do his bidding. His lips trembled. He was overcome with fear. La Violette looked upon the cowering wretch, and her face flushed scarlet. Her violet eyes snapped angrily. Shame—not pity—was in her voice, as she cried: “Arise, father! You are not badly hurt. Here—let me help you.” Stooping, she assisted the craven to his feet. He stared helplessly around him—and could hardly stand. With the whispered words,—“Go and hide your weakness!”—La Violette pushed him into the cabin. Then boldly walking up to Tecumseh and taking him by the arm, she said in a low tone: “Is it thus that wise men settle their differences? For shame! Follow Tenskwatawa—and come not forth until you have a message of good cheer for your disheartened people.” Tecumseh haughtily straightened his lithe form and folded his arms upon his chest, as though about to resent her cutting words. But again their eyes met—and, bowing deferentially, he stalked into the hut, closing the door after him. La Violette—like Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa—had spoken in the Shawnee tongue; but Bradford and Douglas, standing near, had heard and understood every word. Now she stepped in front of the two white men and, addressing the older, demanded in English: “Scar Face, why did you not interfere in Tenskwatawa’s behalf?” “I didn’t dare,” Bradford replied truthfully. “Dare!”—tossing her head contemptuously—“Are you not a man?” “Yes; but——” “But a coward?” Bradford’s face colored a dull red as he answered: “La Violette, you know I’m no coward—whatever else I may be. But it would have been worse than useless for me to interfere. I should have incurred Tecumseh’s lasting displeasure—and accomplished nothing.”