The strong man bowed his head. The savages, engaged in building a fire and preparing to cook some meat, did not notice the agitation of their leader. His features worked spasmodically, and the scar upon his cheek twitched painfully, as he continued to whisper to himself: “God of heaven, tell me who has done this awful thing! The snow has hidden all signs of the conflict—if conflict there was. It, also, covered your trail, my boy, and I stumbled upon you by chance. But, my God! Of what am I thinking? Do I mean to let you die without an effort to save you?” Like one electrified, he leaped to his feet. All his emotion had vanished. Once more he was himself—the cool, firm, diplomatic leader of savage men. His ordinarily husky voice rang out sharp and clear as he cried: “Listen, braves! This man is not dead—he must _not_ die. You have done well—you shall have the gold I promised you. In addition, each one of you shall have five pounds, if you do all in your power to help me to get him to camp alive. Stir yourselves! Cook your meat quickly. Then cut boughs and prepare a litter on which to carry him. Here, Long Gun, assist me.” By this time a huge fire was roaring, that rendered the cave warm and comfortable. A part of the company raked red coals from their bed, and upon them commenced to broil slices of meat; while others began to cut limbs and withes, and weave and bind together a strong and elastic litter. Bradford seated himself and took Douglas’s head upon his lap. Then he produced a flask of brandy, and with Long Gun’s help succeeded in pouring a small quantity down the unconscious man’s throat. A second and third time he repeated this, ere there were any signs of returning life. At last the feeble heart began to beat more regularly and forcibly. The pulse at the wrist became perceptible; color commenced to creep into the marble face. A long-drawn respiration heaved the wounded chest, and a low moan escaped from the blue lips. The white lids lifted; but there was no intelligence in the fever-bright eyes. The wan demon of death had yielded his throne to the riotous imp of delirium. Bradford shrunk back and shuddered as these words fell upon his ear: “Ah, Hiram Bradford, we’ve met at last, in a death-struggle! Now I have you at my mercy. You kept me a prisoner against my will—you kept me from the woman I love. You have wounded me—starved me—frozen me. Now you shall die—_die_!” Douglas’s hands were clenched as though he held an enemy by the throat. “Ugh!” ejaculated Long Gun. “The Great Spirit has robbed the young paleface of his senses. Like a dog dreaming of the chase, he fights in his sleep.” The Shawnee understood but little Ross said, but read aright the meaning of the wounded man’s tone of voice and expression of countenance. “Silence!” Bradford commanded sharply. Then, caressingly smoothing the flushed face of the delirious man, he murmured soothingly: