“Am I mad or dreaming?” he muttered to himself. “Who is she—_what_ is she? So young—so beautiful! I thought her a helpless captive; I find her the power behind the throne. All is mystery—chaos. Bradford’s an impenetrable sphinx, but she—she’s an inexplicable riddle. She’s no ignorant savage; she’s an intelligent, educated white woman. What then? She’s not Tenskwatawa’s daughter—that’s plain. But who _is_ she? What does she among the Indians? Bradford, even, bends to her will. She regards the savages as her people; she’s hand and glove with the English. Evidently she hates all Americans. And she didn’t deign to notice me”—with a sigh—“who saved her life. So graceful—so charming; but mystery of mysteries! She has forgotten her promise to me—ah!” He cut short his whispered soliloquy and quickly glanced around him. In little groups and knots, the braves were talking and gesticulating. Down by the creek, half-naked children were paddling in the icy water and shouting and laughing. Three squaws, bearing bundles of fagots with which to replenish the camp-fires, passed the spot where the young man was standing. One of the trio—a bent and wrinkled hag—revealed her toothless gums, in a sardonic grin, and, pointing to Duke, cackled hoarsely, in the Delaware language: “See! See the dog. He is big and fat. The sight of him makes my mouth water. What a stew he would make! Why has he not been killed?” “Come on,” chuckled one of her younger companions. “The dog belongs to Fleet Foot. Do you not see him standing there? I know him—he used to buy furs of my father. But he is Scar Face’s prisoner now. Come on! To-night the dog will disappear from his master’s side; and to-morrow we shall pick his bones. My husband told me. To-morrow we shall feast.” “And the paleface—Fleet Foot—should die, too,” grumbled the third squaw. “He has a great appetite—he eats much. And there is no food to spare——” Then the three passed out of Ross’s hearing. He smiled grimly as he whispered to himself: “So they would kill Duke to _eat_—and kill me to keep me from _eating_. And that comely Delaware squaw remembers me. I wonder how many others in the camp know me—and how many would befriend me, if I should appeal to them. And I used to live among such beings; they were my associates, my friends. Bright Wing and a few others alone remain true to me. By the way, I wonder where that Wyandot and Joe Farley are. Are they grieving over my strange disappearance? How excited the savages are. I will act upon the idea that occurred to me a little while ago. Oh! to regain my liberty—to see Amy once again——” His soliloquy ended in a long-drawn sigh. Softly whistling to the hound, he set off toward the upper end of the camp. Apparently the Indians gave no heed to him, as he made his way among them. Soon he had left them behind and was at the eastern limit of the camp—and alone.